At times it’s a bit chaotic in here, inside my head. Think of a room with flashing lights of every color one can think of.
George Orwell has been referenced a lot lately, with people using his book 1984 as
I used to, as a ten-year-old boy, go to the local Bargain Town to pick up a model
I sit among them, almost counting them as friends, but never having met them. I can almost hear their
“Yeah, of course I remember those days,” he said. “I was young and full of piss and vinegar. I thought I could conquer the
Trepidation was coursing through my body As I approached the front door. The spinning barber pole corkscrewed its way upward,
The colors are what struck me when I looked into the stands, As a million multicolor dots on a pointillist painting. There
I don’t know how they fell or how they lived But I can’t help noticing they are there. I wonder, as I contemplate the markers