Jemy Francillon — Flush of Consciousness

Blank page and a pulsing cursor. Howdy old friend. There's no better picture of potential.
Hmm, I need some music. Something so appropriate, perfectly curated to help me make this cursor dance, following the lead of my fingers as they foxtrot on these keys. I'm thinking something funky, and a little spacey—give these metaphors plenty of room to stretch and extend themselves, sprawling across the page. 

A left handed preference is countered by two left feet. I'll compose the beautiful music I could never dance to. A finger of the sinister sauce will provide liquid rhythm to the hands on the board though. Now we're just nearly set to go. 

Wait...gotta dim the light. The phosphorescent brilliance or Edisonian filament is but a flash in the pan compared to the spark of creative realness generated by the will of men.
Hmm okay, mood is set. Right? Right. Let's go.

Great, someone's in the shower. Someone's cleanin' and steamin' their stalk and bits and damming up my stream of consciousness. Must I only dream of constant bliss? Shit, wait, I'm quoting Mike now. 

Peace to the Chief but I gotta see myself through this. I've gotta massage this message through these fingers with the dexterity of Dexter in his lab til it ends happily on the page. 
Let's see here, should we try to save the world again? I could preach about worshiping warships or how we should be draggin' wagons of flagons of lemonade after raiding life's orchards. Yeah, no hand-outs, we take our own lemons.

Or, I could wax on the lovely mundane. Like the Manhattan peach. Fuzzy, succulent, and sweet. No innuendo or doublespeak, I’m genuinely waxing on a peach. I could cobble something up and eschew it of it gets outta reach.

How about some lengthy brooding lament about how I was late to Finnegan's Wake cause I'm lazy and don't get gym joys. 

Either way I've gotta figure something out. Like a cow in the weeds, the stakes are high. I'm sick and tired of being afraid like slits in wires. Let me send you on a trip like sticks in tires. I'll hammer these keys with nails til my points come across.

Well alright, I think I'm on track now—wheels are churnin', fire's burnin' my loco motive is rollin'. Like a gunner with a geometric grudge, I'm firing on all cylinders. Squares you watch out too, you may just end up in my circle. I'm gonna try angles til I find the right one, til I'm doing the Carlton, spilling crackers at the Ritz. Best believe Polly gon' want one. 
Whoa, okay. I may have derailed there—the mood juice set my hands loose and I rolled with it, head over caboose. 

Originality. That's the struggle. I mean, look at us—we're all isotopes of the same Adam. Since that garden we've used the same tropes as long as we've had 'em. We are quicker to hang new ideas from ropes rather than add 'em. We let it wave like a warning or inanimate flag. Even Disney can't brag—Minnie is just Mickey in drag.

I guess I can't totally fault the biters, reciters, and novelty fighters. Maybe they're all just bakers, they knead the dough. Some folks can just get baked and open sesame, like magic they're on a roll. Either way, it's a dog eat dog world out there and I just wanna be the guy relishing some good buns.