“That’s what faces us, the danger of compromise.”
Said by one muscular man fighting another man over a car (with a little girl inside) in a post-apocalyptic movie I was dreaming this morning. They were using spiked billy clubs on each other and on the windows of the car.
I woke up right after that line was spoken, so I’m afraid I can’t say who won the fight or what happened to the little girl. If you can dream up an ending, let me know.
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If I don't tell you what I'm doing, I have my doubts you would ever find out. Am I your mystery worth pursuing or just some rhyme for twenty-nine? If I could climb upon the framework you build around you, as if it were your soul, and looked inside, what would I find? Some somethingness or only twenty-nine? There are times I see the present but so rarely am I there, then barely. Maybe I'll open that wine you sent: a fine wine, not some cheap twenty-nine. God help me if there were a God looking down to assess this terrible mess -- He would dispatch his thunder as his sign how displeased he is with twenty-nine.
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Hello out there. I’ve been thinking. My sentences? Too long. Way too long. Too many subordinate clauses. Too many fancy words. Like “subordinate.” And “clause.”
I’m no professor. Why talk like one? Really. Three, four words max. It’s all you need. Word, word, word, period. There you go. Long sentences suck. Short ones rock.
And paragraphs. Don’t get me started. A waste of time. Space too. Just look at Tolstoy. No minimalist, he. War and Peace? Thirteen hundred pages. Way too long. Get real. Bolkonsky, Drubetskoy, Kutuzov, Rostova. Four paragraphs right there. Oh, my eyelids.
So, concise is nice. So long, long.
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