71. Can't Buy Me Love, or something more cogent, perhaps

71. Can't Buy Me Love, or something more cogent, perhaps

A Chapter by Anne Martin
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Stream of consciousness

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For some reason that song, or more specifically, just that line, popped into my head, and I just seemed to be obsessed with commas in this never-ending sentence, something that I have been wont to do in the past, and you probably never wanted me to continue, to deceive, or not to, depending on your wants, your need, your sanity, or mine, but how can I deceive you if I never get to the point, never stop spinning this, as you are wishing that silly me without a single clear thought, not clear as a summer’s day, and it isn’t summer yet, not quite, and it isn’t clear anymore either, since we expect rain overnight, a night in which I will probably sleep poorly again, dreaming about tablet computers with my arms over my head again, like a scarecrow, or something like that, but maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to a bloody point in this pointless mishmash of deluded, occluded, obscured, half-formed thoughts that never go anywhere important, at least, nowhere fast, perhaps, or perhaps nowhere very, very slowly, all commaed up, which probably isn’t a word, definitely isn’t, but who is going to stop and look it up, since I’m on a roll, rolling downhill, careening, even, or unevenly, since it is downhill, faster and faster, I accelerate, accelerando in Italian, as I’m a thinking musician, thinking in a different way, a special way, and I still haven’t gotten to or even close to the love that I can’t buy, not for a nickle or a dollar, nor even a sovereign, but that is too old-fashioned for this new-fangled, bespangled, modern girl who is prone to verbal diarrhea, that’s the American spelling, though, and it looks so wrong having spent so many years in England, editing in British English, which completely fried this tiny brain, and prevents me from coming to a complete stop, when you know that I must, you trust, at least, that I won’t continue prattling on forever and ever, nevertheless, or nevermore, quote that silly raven perched above the door, or somewhere, I can’t recall, because all I can remember is what prevents me from stopping until I get some, no, not love, but it is probably something I could buy if I really wanted it, or something I could sell, but who would want this thoroughly modern, yet aging body, with a brain two cents short of a nickle, and in a pickle, since I really don’t know how to end this without typing the word, sex.


© 2020 Anne Martin


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I used the periods. I went to a writers workshop for a year. They told me, less periods and more commas. Now I use the commas to death. I loved your thoughts. I would love to drink coffee with you and discuss everything for days. I miss the days of conversation. When I was station in Monterey from 1991-1993. I was lucky, great writers would discuss writing and life with me. Always a pleasure to read your work dear Anne.
Coyote

Posted 3 Years Ago



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Added on May 5, 2020
Last Updated on May 5, 2020
Tags: nonsense, sex


Author

Anne Martin
Anne Martin

The second circle of hell.



About
After 15 years I have finished The Cult of Hahn. Editing time. Professional musician. Private person I love fantasy, especially dark sexy stories. more..

Writing