Voices.

I've been hearing voices in my head for a while now. People worry for me, but I allay their fears with a small dose of sanity. In my head is really the most appropriate place to hear voices, I tell them. If I begin to hear them out of my fingers, then you can be certain something is terribly wrong.

Actinic word sequence.

Metaphysical Fridays.

Are there some questions that can't be answered? Prove it.

People who bother me.

People who are really capybaras that shape-shifted into people bother me.

Vagueness.

I'm within a few paltry calculations of completing the mathematical equation which provides the formula with which to prove the certainty of the human fascination with shadows. It is called the adumbration blueprint.

Art.

Text.

All authors are artificial constructs to some extent. Derrida was partially correct when he suggested nothing exists outside the text. I advance the theory to a further conclusion: not only does nothing exist outside the text, but more than that, the text actively creates this Author. I imbue the text and it imbues me. If it were not for the benevolence of words and language I would not exist and yet neither would the text that is formed to describe my existence. The text does not absorb me to supply a framework for my narrative but rather it designs and delivers me and I in turn supply it with the narrative with which to explain my being. There is no hierarchy. Rather the text and I are inseparable: letters are my cells; phonemes are my DNA; my atoms are thematic.

Venn diagram.

Metaphysical Fridays.

Do you like music, or do you only enjoy how it sounds? Is music mere auditory wallpaper to you, or a vessel from which to extract meaning about yourself and the universe?

People who bother me.

People who claim to have coulrophobia bother me.

Colour plate.

Decision.

I've come to a decision: rather than have you attempt to decipher my intentions, let's assume you are mistaken and we'll continue the story.

Shame.

His ears burned and he felt sick. Dad's voice was uncomfortably loud. Strident adult debate about the news of the day excluded him as it swirled around the room. His stupid unshod feet dangled exposed from beneath the nylon cape the barber had draped across his shoulders before lifting him onto a board that straddled the arms of the solid steel chair, raising him to an embarrassingly false height. He was too hot and the noise was too much. He was being ignored and everyone was laughing at him. They must have been mocking him for the ridiculous way he had to sit propped up with naked toes. Frustrated tears welled in the large mirror. He caught his father looking at him and they were both ashamed.

Asemic continuum.

Metaphysical Fridays.

No, Mann is an island.

People who bother me.

People who have lit a fire in a hospital emergency department just so they can be the one to put it out and claim hero status bother me.

Updike.

DNA.

My genetic code is made up of only lowercase letters and includes a silent 'g'. 
It was first written on the back of a napkin, and has since been typeset on my cell structure in 14pt Helvetica Medium on 22pt leading, left aligned. What this means for me as I evolve is thus far unclear.

Writing.

Writing is not like thinking about writing; writing is like thinking.

Venn diagram.