Long live the table legs

These are the bloody table legs holding up a top I have unaccountably sat under for as long as my boney ass remembers.
They aren't too aesthetically advanced but  the thigh to toe

They aren't anything special or fancy, merely aesthetically pleasing but the form that carries from the toes to the thighs have suspectibly embedded behind and before my eyes.
These bare wooden legs hold the foundation to this life's creative ambition.
Or some shit, anyway..

The cube thighs, bowling pin calves and rings. Pasty, poorly varnished timber. Forever I'll stay lured by the opportunity of how much more advanced they could have carved you.

I can see you now underlye the plays of my pen, preventing enrichment by the bore and misfortune I was forced to endure every time I ate dinner.

Spicing up a Tuesday night. Familiar chills never float astray, hey?

Reaching new levels with my old friend, and the trace of my hand.
I'm starting to believe I will never grow out of defacing inappropriate things.
I cannot resist a bare slate, waiting to meet the ink.

It's a good morning in the shed

I've greeted and blessed my new space with tea candles, wine and a great couch. 

I can't be fucked writing more about how incredible the vibe is in here, perhaps I might inform you a little later once the boredom rises but as for now, I am to endure my new space and introduce it and my ears to new, and now quiet music. 

Ciao 

I'm occupied,
too much bullshit flooding my mind to separate the ambience from the magnitude of bullshit.

I'm interrupted.
I'm torn,
and disappointed  -  because the moon's gravitational pull is inarguable, so the bullshit seems here to stay only to shadow my profound, little life.

Just my luck,
just my life.

Oh, the paste of the webcam filter cannot portray the dark shadows lining my face. They stand as a punishment to my silly and insensible behaviour. I could say they are earned but I can't shake off the feeling of my dragging spirit and the slow focus the slides across the floor as I look.
It's been around a month since I began to touch hands with the frames of darkness, but there is merely a full day spent of admitting my destructive, junked movement.

So I sit here, forcing a blog entry out of my poor, violated brain only as a proposal to empathise.
Accompanied I am by the ever so satisfying Maccas coke, my dear older cousin G and that identical looking thing, that at the moment, keeps a repeat in my life worse than the sting of a soft drink nose burp.
Forever I question whatever did I do so wrong, but I'll wait for the days to inevitably shine in the soft silence I long for.

So I'm greeted by yet another lovely morning sky,
-