free_write sixteen time yourself. type for 3 minutes straight, anything that comes to your mind or your keyboard. no editing. mine: everything feels more hectic when you're being timed. I was searching my mind for something interesting to saybut all I found was some dusty old useless nothings that my mind subsides on thinking about. like "when was the last time I talked to my mom? I want to talk to her about my car, but i don't really want to talk to her for fear of being OK with my family." I don't know. My brother justin owns a moped. My brother Isaac owns a really crushed up car that his friend just flipped a couple days ago when he was drunk. I don't want to tell the story anymore. It depresses me. It really depresses my brother. THAT depresses me more. He seems so delicate so suddenly. He was the mean brother when i was growing up in Maryland. He was tough and mean and rough and....now he's something I feel like I have to protect. but he doesnt expect that. but i feel like he hopes it. he is 22, he should be protecting me. maybe not. I don't like taking care of myself or being taken care of 030623 ... god lemme tell you a little story bout a man named jed. jed clampett. he was really buddy ebsen i think. flatt and scruggs. they did the themesong. my great granma on my dads side was said to have gone out with lester flatt before. maybe it was earl scruggs. i don't know. i ain't been around these people in fifteen years or more. christ. one more minute. approximately. i want to talk about candles, but where to start???? i can't think straight. i got to go get a drink 030623 ... phil Probably sensing a debilitating nonsense coming in way of the van, Van parked by a van. And vanned across several vans in a hope of vanning to the next stop. But the spot was with oily glumps and Van rolled over stumps like a chump, and fell out with a bump, onto a stump, where he got on a bumblebee sting, and stung. Stung, he flung the rug and pulled his gun making everybody run for fun he hugged the tree as the sun shone alone on phones and homes and his jeweled eye's fractured lense scraped by a spatula hung from a bee's nest. Too many people had witnessed the event to be related to tape, so the paper said in the end that's where they built the mall, with guns and rugs and bumblebee spoons, all in little cups they sell to children. Although the spoons, their stocks do poorly, lower prices help support it, the North American trade, until one day... The music was light & full of holes. A harp plucking it's strings, the sound of nature trickling away, a relaxed saturday in Mexico, the air so dry, the best thing to do was lie low until evening. Miguel and Supio were checking the last of their inventory in their small mall near the fence, when it was discovered, a small wooden type of spoon, that bumblebee spoon, the canadian's had been selling. Those filthy stinking jockstraps Miguel thought to himself, sinking so low to steal the vary heritage of his native people. He knew he should have never sold land to those French people, who lived over there. 030623 ... jane freewrite 030623 what's it to you? who go blather from