Only a continuing monologue

Only a continuing monologue in the singularity of the first person growing little plants on a head taproot perhaps growing inside and through skulls poking a brain still thoughtless Zen when textbooks of physics are sold in black-markets of racist ideas and then in the blue and in the green of the streets where have been bred well-mannered pathways selling old books to pick up Resnick and Halliday drunk out of their minds on the road after a brawl in the streets inertia and torque – a rotating pool ball or ball in a bowling alley English in forward or reverse when pushed with a cue queue a long line at the bookstore classical physics Netwon of the Isaac the forceful unit is god even for the atheistically inclined the idea must agree with their aesthetics growing long curly wig-like hair in the French way of Swann asleep at home long face and the moustache of French artist diplomat who longed to belong tuberculosis in their chests and lungs along with that little spark of creativity and restlessness that forced them to write everything, everything, diary-like in thick journals of thousand seven hundred and seventy-three pages searching for lost time one last time in remembrance of things fast and the furious and Rembrandt impressions in a mind behind fluttering window curtains after a Sunday afternoon siesta and lonely sex alone on cast iron cots all the world is a stage everyone ever born cast in the French unknown role-de-appropriate to play with red wine for the vin celebrating victories and grapes that have packed inside them solid sweet sunshine and a whispered secret sweet like what everyone saw and read about a few postboxes away from the here of the here and the now of the now – a hero is someone who is very soon forgotten