“Shadow owl hoots at the Episcopal constable…” The pen flies, belching ink and other obscene things straight from the head, mad mind dead of feeling, being, believing, empty and open to receive the yin-yang contradictions of unceasing life lessons. But wait, it’s not dead, only neutral, cold but cozy, crying but compassionately optimistic, smiling through sobs while cheerfully cynical and skeptical of everything it thinks it believes. Don’t despair or deceive, leave deception behind like your articles of clothing as you run naked away from your sins. Or are they my sins? Does it matter? Are sins just the collective conscience, the pop archetypes that are closer to our hearts and beauteous bounds then we know? If so, don’t excise them, exorcist, keep them, cherish, for the instinctual creature clichés we name “sins” or “insanity” are what will finally tell us the underlying themes and meanings of humanity. Tap into it, a spelunker in a spooky cave which wallows wide with a pitch black lake of pitch dark water, pure but for the mossy stench of stale bat droppings and lost bat babies who crashed hysterical into the drowning depths as they made their first attempts at flight but alas could only watch as their squeaking brethren shrank further and further from their cries. In this well, this blind frigid hell-stew of fallen psyches and unused bodies, lays our closest chance at truth. Shiver, reader, for you just had a revelation! We beings of the brief, creatures of fleeting light-cracks of moment will only ever understand the eternal truth through the death of reason, murder of structure, and we will do so by climbing high ‘till our heads reel and our breath comes painful or by digging deep ‘till our senses are useless and we, like Kurtz, are unanchored and blind with madness. Forget what you know and deeply dive head-first from the fragile equilibrium.

A type of stream-of-consciousness free-writing style I've been trying. Any criticism would be helpful.