Ideal Coolants

In the space between the penguin and tundra–
a passive, convective type of cool–
much fun was absorbed by attempting to overheat.

No fans necessary (hence ‘passive’),
no distractions from the ultimate goal(s).
Just pure fun with the sun.

A type of…migration began to occur.
A holy migration, because that’s what people kept saying
“Holy 7#i$ holy 7#47”.

During a particularly complicated launching procedure
brought about by fruits and fruition, thoughts+thinkation,
one person felt what it must be like to be truly alone

as she drove her blazing car into a ripe zone.

Conversely, imagine what it must be like to have to actually
change the way your own cells work, how they’re organized,
how data flows through them, and in what topography.

So much so that the more sophisticated
or higher yielding coolants could be used directly
instead of through some sorts of electrical device.

You just drink the coolant straight up.

"My pieces comprise, entirely, works of fiction. Some pieces are shorts, others tend to get a little longer. Some are straightforward and may be read evenly, while others can tend to be amorphous. You see, sometimes the writer does his piece completely lucid, sitting straight up and staring intently into it as his fingers simply glide across the keys. Other times his eyes are opaque with tears from imaginary emotions. Sentences, nay, words, barely come out as he stabs at each letter with one trembling finger, like how your mom types. Then there are the times a piece of work is scrawled from a leaking pen on a notepad in a bar after several whiskeys, as the writer gleefully tries to get everything down before the bouncers come over to throw him out for laughing like a crazy person to himself all night. The writer cannot say what is good, or what is bad. He can only write. It does not do for one to rank a piece of his work above others, just as it does not do for one to deign to strive to be published. That must be left to others, to come and ask the writer if they may publish his work, and that all of the work would be copyright (c) him 2000-2009, if they were to do so.

Some of the pieces may even seem far too real -- as though he's actually blogging about his real life, his personal thoughts. You know -- because it is a blog, some people may think that may be the case. Well it ain't, damn you, it ain't."

The man in the tracksuit shrugged over the counter. "Thanks for the info, Hemingway," he said, "but I just wanted to know where the damn ATM is."



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