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alentravorski
November 14th, 2010, 01:22 AM
edit: this was in the non-fiction section. I had confused non-fiction with fiction...
will add more when I have time

Inside the inaccessible bump peers the dreamed zone.

I have yet to sleep a full eight hours...

The days go by, and I get more tired. When I sleep I just dread the moment I wake up. I am not fully conscious, but the dread is there. It goes into my dreams. Last night I dreamed I was hanging from a cliff, with water smashing against granite rocks below. I couldn't hold on too long... I decided to risk the fall. I plummeted at the speed of light, hitting the water with a thunderous roar. I couldn't see anything, it was pitch black and a sense of something watching me was always above me, below me, between my legs.

The dashing imperative simulates the gateway.

I woke with a cold sweat and went to get a drink. I got buzzed and decided to stay up the night. There is always a tomorrow.

The optic garden gossips beneath the skin.

I had finished college, doing odd jobs and semi legal jobs and weird jobs and strange ones too. They where all interesting too me because they had variety, and the last thing I wanted to be was something linear and mundane, like a Wal-Mart greeter.

Every local kiss establishes the socialist near a horrid envelope.

The jobs included forging certain subscriptions, delivering unethically obtained medication, mild detective work for paranoid friends, writing, talking walking riding, protecting, and freelancing. I had fun with these for about a year before I decided to take a break. Maybe think about what I can do with a bachelor in psychology.

The cruel connector remarks the log protein.

Maybe I should go back to school? Become a drug dealer? Just wander around while I love life, live life, travel, fuck, exterminate. I should attend a play.

Will the succeeding bastard prostitute the traveling differential?

I started getting the ol' dread when I began doing a small and steady gig for a friend. It involved trafficking vicodin and various barbiturates to college campuses. I didn't do the hustle myself, but distributed the pills among key players on campus. I didn't get too much for each visit, but there where many. I soon scavenged enough money to afford a car, so I chose a humble Accord. They should just call it the Accord Humble. It was stale and homely, like a naked mole rat, and too conservative for my taste, but it was cheap and efficient.

The root theme misguides a murdered capital.

I drove my Accord Humble to the corner liquor store on my first test drive, and filled the backseat with booze...

A keystroke binds the surprise underneath the grim stomach.

...I also bought an old typewriter.

The lecturer swims beside the keystroke.

The dread soon started. I was afraid, but that wasn't the problem - I was worried about not knowing what my fear was. I was living in virtual reality, the world and life as we know it wrapped around until the ends met, creating a perfect circle, rotating glamorously around my eyes until I was too dizzy too think. A god damned booze carousel.

valo123
November 14th, 2010, 01:41 AM
edit: this was in the non-fiction section. I had confused non-fiction with fiction...
will add more when I have time

Inside the inaccessible bump peers the dreamed zone.

I have yet to sleep a full eight hours...

The days go by, and I get more tired. When I sleep I just dread the moment I wake up.(remove just. *I dread waking up* will do.) I am not fully conscious, but the dread is there. It goes into my dreams.(It follows me to my dreams) Last night I dreamed (Dreamt) I was hanging from a cliff, with water smashing against granite rocks below.(granite isn't needed) I couldn't hold on too long... (and instead decided to risk the fall. I'd remove "I")I decided to risk the fall. I plummeted at the speed of light(it wasn't the speed of light, though. Make a more realistic comparison/metaphor), hitting the water with a thunderous roar(clap instead of roar). I couldn't see anything, it was pitch black and a sense of something watching me was always above me (I sensed something watching me from above, below, even between my legs (I'd remove the last part, I don't get it), below me, between my legs.

The dashing imperative simulates the gateway.

I woke with a cold sweat and went to get a drink. I got buzzed and decided to stay up the night. There is always a tomorrow.

The optic garden gossips beneath the skin.

I had finished college, (and was doing) doing odd jobs and semi legal jobs and weird jobs and strange ones too. They where all interesting too me because they had variety, and the last thing I wanted to be was something linear and mundane, like a Wal-Mart greeter.

Every local kiss establishes the socialist near a horrid envelope. (I don't follow)

The jobs included forging certain subscriptions, delivering unethically obtained medication, mild detective work for paranoid friends, writing, talking walking riding, protecting, and freelancing. I had fun with these for about a year before I decided to take a break. Maybe think about what I can do with a bachelor in psychology.

The cruel connector remarks the log protein.

Maybe I should go back to school? Become a drug dealer? Just wander around while I love life, live life, travel, fuck, exterminate. I should attend a play.

Will the succeeding bastard prostitute the traveling differential? (whaaaa?)

I started getting the ol' dread when I began doing a small and steady gig for a friend. It involved trafficking vicodin and various barbiturates to college campuses. I didn't do the hustle myself, but distributed the pills among key players on campus. I didn't get too much for each visit, but there where many. I soon scavenged enough money to afford a car, so I chose a humble Accord. They should just call it the Accord Humble. It was stale and homely, like a naked mole rat, and too conservative for my taste, but it was cheap and efficient.

The root theme misguides a murdered capital. (lost again...)

I drove my Accord Humble to the corner liquor store on my first test drive, (not sure if comma is needed here) and filled the backseat with booze...

A keystroke binds the surprise underneath the grim stomach. (and again)

...I also bought an old typewriter.

The lecturer swims beside the keystroke. (this has a poetic ring to it, but what's it mean?)

The dread soon started (I'd replace with returned or "started as before"). I was afraid, but that wasn't the problem - I was worried about not knowing what my fear was (so you were afraid then. Let your reader determine why he's scared. Show them why he's scared. I just remove those two sentences and start here). I was living in virtual reality, the world and life as we know it wrapped around until the ends met, creating a perfect circle, rotating glamorously around my eyes until I was too dizzy too think. A god damned booze carousel.