An Attempt at Avant-Garde Blogging (AKA: Jorge’s rants are very fiery, today…)

Skies reek of winter. The summer solstice sings in my brain, my ears pound for justice.

I like the taste of peanuts. And male soul harmonies on songs about sex are surprisingly relaxing.

Who needs anything to be appropriate? What is appropriate.

I am Walt Whitman. I am Langston Hughes.

I am Jimi Hendrix. My drug is life, and I intend to overdose.

I am the Danger. My drug is love.

But what is a life without love?

What is love without life? Necrophilia.

But is sex, love? Is love, sex? I dare say no, mind you. Because love is love. And sex can be  love, and love can be sex. But at no point is one the equivalent of the other.

This post will no longer mention sex. Because sex shouldn’t be that important.

To love is to live with other lives at the forefront. To love is to know that someone else’s love is more important than, and essential to, your own. So, love yourself. Love everyone.

Live.

Eat, because it’s necessary, and food is good. Enjoy it. But don’t get caught up.

Clouds eat the sky, and on days like today, they are the gluttons that rob us of happiness. So give that happiness to others. It matters more, as it matters.

I thank God, today, for giving me life, love, happiness, and food, and the opportunity to give all of that to others.

Peace…

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