Standard Margins

The expression of writing is lost to type. My laptop spews thoughts like a freight train, I cannot keep up. Mistakes dissolve and the margins make up their own mind. A new thought, how could I forget! Back back back, nobody knows. Forwards and backwards. Genius? Lost! I missed the train for an empty thought. Now I have nothing. I wait for the next train. I could have been halfway there, but now nowhere. Stupid train.

              Past fights now; nothing triumphs. I am lost in hesitation. The flow of thought has a pattern that swirls wild like a fingerprint, with no regard for others. In all possibilities in all directions, a flow state cannot be achieved. Primordial brain, darting back and forth, who art thou enemy? Only in the singularity does danger dissolve and frequency flourish. The moment is promised, while a façade looms before me. I am barreling ahead and will not let go.

              Margins are decidedly equal, no room to express human error. We must stand in formation! About face! I am standing in a company of black, orderly figures. It is not I, but we. No, not we. A figure of uniform density expanding indefinitely. Once individuals, then a conglomerate, now a mass quickly approaching zero. Will I get left behind if I choose to express myself in a stack of two-dimensional sheets? I presume enough layers would present my frequency in the third dimension. Am I strong enough to break free from this point of singularity? My expression here can be summed up in a finite amount of data. The penny for my thoughts has been conspired against. Inflation renders me powerless, and the United States Mint declares me obsolete. Ever notice the similarity between Denver and Philadelphia? They are both full of shit.

              Maybe it was never about the individual or the penny.  Are we not one collective being? The façade is the individual. One brick, wall, home, city, country, world, beyond. While the silly constricting margins of this page may appear to stifle my creativity, the river flows on. It is not about the margins, but the madness.