An exercise in automatic writing.

Today my lips are glass and my tongue is velvet and all day it's been lips and tongue and lips and tongue, and me, with chicklet teeth. Peach fuzz and velvet, glass lips and chicklets and me with nothing to say. I try to stay quiet so no one will catch on. It's only a few words before everyone's in on the joke. I'm going to breath stronger from now on, like that kid with blue hair. Oxygen is blue, and formula is cream, and akimbo tastes like vegetarian soup with watery broth. And me with nothing to wear! Who needs clothes when they're alone? Who needs clothes when they're together? Dolphins like to have their tongues stroked, and I think I would too, seeing as my tongue turns out to be velvet. Who wouldn't like to touch it? I'd like to have a small little tongue like a scratchy-pink petal I could use to clean out your ears. I'd like to see you around. I know a boy, and you can tell by his hair that he swims in the sunshine; in the light it always looks wet, in the water it always looks bright. We spent an afternoon in slanted treelight folding daisy chains out of clovers. I hope I never love anyone who loves life less than he does. I will. Jaded is my favorite type. Just my type. Just my typical day. When they ask me when I die what I accomplished, I'll say "I did it wrong, but I do wrong better than anyone I know."

My wrongs are my favorite ways. My ways are my favorite wrongs.