Mud, and thumbs.

Sometimes, I'm a prehistoric, banging away at the unknown knowledge in front of me. Wailing in my language, consumed with confusion that obscures even the acknowledgement of confusion--utterly lost.  I wrote a song about it, on an old album. Time as the charging train. Sun spots. 

I loooove getting esoteric when I'm like this. It feels like I'm talking--and I am--but no one knows what I'm saying, and it's a more active version of what happens a lot of the time.  This epicycle thing I got going is pretty great. Always heading into our noon hour.

I laugh when I'm misunderstood, and no one's feelings are really hurt; I see structures in my mind. Visualizations of conversations and claims, I am obsessed with structure, and so when I see one of mine that I keep banging up against, it's a humorous and humbling feeling. Still a monkey with a bone.  A more basal being, with an observant intellectual dancing along side.  What is mud baby, what is mud. 

Mud, and Thumbs.