Bulbous

I
Bulbous is a great word. It just sort of slides off your tongue. Sliding off the tongue, there aren't to many cases were things slide off your tongue. Smooth, silver, strange. Nice 's' sort of sounds. SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. The snake will bite you soon enough.

You will never yell without a tongue, you will never cry without tears. You will never hurt without your brain, you will never think without your body. The struggle continues.

II
I am strangely in an odd spot. I don't feel right, it doesn't feel right. A carpenter just came up to my room to check the attic, he's working on the bathroom, I don't get it. He said "Oh that smells nice." I looked at him and he said "Can't wait to go home so I can get loaded." Loaded, I never put it that way.

There is nothing important that I have to say. You shouldn't expect it, I shouldn't fake it. This is a dying cause. The rock will crumble and crash into pieces one of these days, maybe soon. The crash will make a terrible sound, sort of sordid, evil in its essence but strangely comforting in its echo.

III
I wish I had a bottle of whiskey and a hammer, then I could get some work done. The drunker the hammer would get the more nails it would need. Work in this fashion will hammer and flatten any of the bulbous thoughts that may fly out of your head. Bulbous. Flatten them, kill them, especially those big awkward ones that don't feel good up there, that just float around and take up all the room because of their non-sensical shapes, like an old mangled bike takes up all the room in the trunk of a mercedes.

The rain on the roof, the rain on the roof, the rain on the roof. It won't stop repeating and falling and drumming the pine needles on the top of my roof. On the top of my roof, on the top of my roof. Rough almost sounds like roof, but the sound that the water is making doesn't sound rough at all. The droplets sound...well...
bulbous.