I view from my silk draped window, from my beautiful Middle Eastern abode upon the transparent indigo waters of my cove, and wisps of incense rise from embers within my room. Romantic Arabia.

Cushions of maroon and deep dyed purple. ROCKS AND BROWN AND SAND AND DUST AND SMOKE AND EYES OF BLUE AND THE SEA AND THE CLIFFS AND SAILORS WHO KNOW THE SEA AND BROWN AND BROWN AND BROWN AND LAMB UPON A SPIT WITH INCENSE, ROMANTIC ARABIA. Lovers, exhaling incense and sweat and body odor, and indifference to such things, SWORDS AND SILK AND SPICE AND DUNES AND Religion. Fantasy. Water to cure thirst and loosen the blood. I want to be liquefied and joined with the ocean. Ocean of blue or black I am indifferent. I want to be unknown, so unknown to the Universe that it will never think to waste its energy on harming me. Smoke creates the romance, and the dream. Blind me and deafen me and paralyze me, but keep me alive, and I will enter a dream. I'd rather. Toss me into a vat and pump me full of LSD, and I will enter a dream. The dream of Arabia.

Too simply do you quantify and qualify
Ineffable aspects of things and others.
"It's your education, it's your education,"
So cut out the middle man.
Burn out the middle man.

Hopefully no one ever tells me to stop writing. How do I know if it's bad or not? Silence is a bad omen.