Tipping Chaos Butterfly

jabber

pickapart

Cows flamboyant under pressure lear like near flu. Flap indulgent satisfying only not the tongue, the amphibian itself is under pressure. Water faucet drops upward slap the ceiling and a nightmare appears eating pink lumpy cotton. Numb stays the leg despite the shake of leaves in rain. Yesterday, left wasn’t South. No, it wasn’t.  Sometimes risks the flaberbot to stick its proboscis into the sewer drain. Slatter. I wasn’t homily, nor were tennis balkan countries.

Shart. News is boblseds shoot down a well known path and never stray into the chaos. Hopefully.

Water drops from the sink drop within a small circle.. never outside… though you cannot predict the exact exact exact location…

No no no my nostrils won’t flair in zero gravity. They will only concave and hold the homes of baby butterflies.  Hairs lay in patterns like wheat in wind or velcro combed with wax.

Chocolate cries. Melt my heart.

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And so perhaps you might be wondering what medication I might be on. None.  And that is precisely why I don’t.  I don’t need it.

What is the point here, perhaps you wonder? Feel good you. There is a point. Creativity is a curious beast.  When we remain within the lines of chaos creativity is loved and adored. Step outside though and the world thinks your biscuits are made of cardboard. Shadow on the ceiling set the glass on the table and cries those chocolate Hershey tears down like they weren’t produced in a massive factory. What beast will you make today? Grrr.