Flowings of Your Everlasting Taffyman

remind me to copy and paste this before I hit publish or what not. Not because this will be particularly brilliant or anything but... Im sick of losing shit to computer glitches.

Swapping quotes jokes and stories with elliott at dinner.
Is the place getting quieter, is it due to me being reclusive? am I too intrigued with anth methods? and pictures and the occasional IM conversation, or is my volume too loud too close to my ears and the music too good to comprehend the outside voices. Or is it just late and I havent noticed. It is 11:09 PM and I have been up to my normal hours of some time in the morning which is not good for me by any means. Still I would quite say Im living on morris time (as my world apparently centers there) because I havent tuned in to the Itunes KUMM yet. I blame melissa for starting the trend, i hope only to correct it and get on backpacker time at some point (which is waking up too early, and going to bed too late, and cramming every mind boggling intellectual or culturally stimulating event u can find in between) Right right, thus the exhaustion the depression the stress.

I was falling into chaos for a bit, I think, it was sometime last night while following guitar riffs and thinking about the future, trying to encompass too much in a small enough space that has no sides walls or borders, hard to comprehend life I guess. Even now the keys are typing at a rate far slower than I am thinking and it boggles me to realize that computers (the mother fucking monkey of all inventions) still dont compare.

I havent been writing as much as I want too, partially because Im not sure I have anything to say, partially cuz i write e mails and stories instead, partially because i feel that spare time should be devoted to reading.

But the music (oh god the beautiful music) is flowing again, and its quite powerful.
hip hop gives me words and rhythm, emotions wrapped in poetics and soft undercurrents meant to hit you later. The rock provides the chaos, the oomph in the beat, the wail and pathways of guitar riffs leading to infinite opportunities, the screaming so raw, the singing so lead heavy of confrontatioon of socialization of fitting in, in a cross cultural world, the accoustics the mellow the soothing the heavyness of heartfelt emotion placed delicately on a piece, like glass statues on the edge of a wobbily old wood table, the history and naturalness of those tones that table the folk like grandparents to be appreciated like wisdom, like touching your roots like touching something bigger than yourself a small taste of which can be placed in your hand to try and understand, the religion, the pop, the casual way it all rips at you without your feeling it, molds and melts into your ribcage, taking the place of your organs so that when you breathe you breathe something more than air, you breathe expression of life, you gasp at the pains, the pleasures the hints of your delicate-ness the wrapped so tight explosion of free prosperity of jade of jasmin, or something sacred of loss and love of paint splatters across universes, of star bursts and acid trails of burning of soothing, of messy multiplication of orgasm.

The music.