this is my subconscious, isn't it?

stable, memory-hogging applications can handle pixel-heavy pics getting blurry I think I should read tarantula wonder if it could count as American lit difficult hundred pages or so to read, for sure, but then the wild non-randomness monkey will be like "no, you can't do that, you're copying him" and I'll say "no, the cow story came long ago" but then the world exploded and match boxes came tumbling down and said "I am the best! of course! me and the three musketeers box of snickers bars and great big oil rigs but then I've already wasted seven minutes that should be on my red harp log but the kitties don't care anymore, do they, with eight years of pencil scratchings and piano benches all in a row like incomprehensible sidewalk blocks spelling out "COWS" in chunky firey dog letters that say "alas! I am burning" but in latin so it sounds lofty like the monkie says it should be in the guide's other universe, and so says i an I shall drift off in dreams an climb velvet carpets up t the stars" listening to the cure & i need to write & all this energy that comes from being twisted in yellow thoughts of slight lemonness, anyway, and white plastic night is imaginary grace and all is nice and the keyhole is my friend & acabo de finished the silvered floating harp (with dorian curly hair, evidently), but t live inside my mind you have to be a piece of furniture with colorful flowery birds and alternative voices, half gone. but then the aliens never really came to the twistedness...all green-flashed with forgotten freedoms and librarians (in black and white) liked to interrupt a streamstorm of half edited euphonium thoughts. but it's like pulling the randomness from my feet-space, not quite, but nearly, since the photos are upstairs anyway: all the potential of blended out green and blue short squiggly backgrounds with subverted (not subterranean or subtle, but subverted, as in robeks juice with green eyeshadow and super hair, with black on top of course and pen ink libraries like those plastic whiteness) dots, but they caused the end of the void and nobody liked that either. religion and this song will always be connected, because of the silver bracelets again! not to mention the lumberjacked flowers and twisted bronze yellow. can't forget the yellow, even with orange juice and moonlight. i'm hiding the songs...green was there again & the tall guy BUT LOOK i got new records that are actually quite old & belonged to my mom at my age & which is rather scary & (but) the crispy knocks are just the beginning of a suddenly long white shining light, i wonder if yellow is the same. what was she thinking about when she wrote her old name on the red (now black on silver)...but where is the doubled one? i get it now...more and more layers of subletly (and subvertedness), but it all connects in the end - i wonder if he read the refrigerator books (you know the yellow ochre and the white doubly are friends) - i think he'd like them, but did the other he? i wonder where the third one is...confusion is getting less abstract but it's the best way t glorify the evolved weirdnesses, naturally. it all makes sense to me and yellow, right? someday it will, and to the third owner of the red spiral void, too, but she won't know it, because half of its voice is already gone and multiplied in her head again, & then i'm listening to new found glory again. i remember dancing with my friends on the biology quad like the crazy health people but much much better since all our colors weave together and blend in places and some fade out but the next comes in and you never see some of them until the free-est one tells you what to do and gets mad at you for doing it but the pandas won't ever tell you the wrong name since they can't! unexpected seeing of some long ago cousin makes my sentences start in the wrong places and it all makes sense, really it does, but only to me and yellow [someday] but i already said that but it's ok. things that rhyme have the same note, like in the spanish binder fire, pre-structured diffusion of carrier pigeons and dodos, bad previews and bad and all is some legislation imitation (i could do so much better, couldn't i). i wonder why the empty space outside of statue buildings is always roped off...to save us from the moms, who one day long ago wrote their names on spiral redness for me and green, whose name fits her more perfectly than i thought it did (i wonder if she knows it too). but what color am i? my name is one, my insides are another, my external inside is yet another. i think i'm really just an at sign in some subconscious lipid bilayer, in mobile right above the gloried quad of picnics and health freaks. much better than writing in spanish, to myself anyway. i think i've given away too much, and it's back to dylan again. some start the same, did you notice?