The devil inside

I have ruffled a few feathers, yes, and laid a few eggs, and crowed consistently at the crack of dawn; and I have rooted around in the stale and decaying fall leaves on the porch outside my house, this of course being mid-March, and the leaves of course remaining unraked and slowly recycling via public compost into the round, gaping, and well-worn hole of nature's circle; and I am quite visibly proud of my little rooted nest of leaves, and perk my head up to show off the pride, the smile of my beak and the knowing look of the eye situated perfectly on the side of my head; and if I want to look at you to gloat I must master the perpendicular complexity of the geometric, 2-dimensional landscape that constitues a chicken's operative environment, which of course I do with ease; and I run to my mate, equally proud of my morning success in building a nest of leaves, and I bob my head to gain balance as I walk quickly up stairs, which could easily confound my limited algebraic capacities... but it doesn't, and we go back into the hen house, pecking at the scars over my deliberatively broken wings, and wait until morning, sleeping only breifly and mourning the howling wind as it messes up my day's accomplishment. But tomorrow, there wil be more leaves and more nests and more accomplishment, and my pride will swell, and my feathers will be fluffed and my mate will be proud.

___________________________

I dont know why I posted those emails in my last entry. It was quite spontaneous, and I was quite sober at the time. I was actually enjoying my conversation with Harmony, which only started earlier that morning and was carried out hastily between classes, and I was checking my email frequently- yes, even more frequently than usual (there must be some Plank constant in there that limits the sheer number of times I can check my email, which I am asymptotically approaching), and I was trying to dance around the issues that mattered as a way of stretching my legs and testing out my prose, which certainly needs work, and I stayed vague enough, but biting, and she was being quite honest and vulnerable, and everything was fine; and Harmony is quite a bit like me, I think, although my hate is generally directed outwards, because I have no soul, whereas hers is directed inwards because she has too much; but there is something rather conciliatory about us, which of course she picked up on first, with the whole literary double thing.

I understand Harmony's being upset with me in a sort of academic way- in the sense that it is conventionally understood that private correspondence is not meant for public display, that it is exploitative and mean and so on- but I'm not sure why Harmony was particularly upset at this particular public display, except perhaps that she is merely keeping up convention. Very few people will read it, and fewer still will actually care to stil through the rather benign and purposively, unapproachably long email correspondence already. Of those who do read it, either nothing in these emails is very surprising. The people who knew any of the 'juicy' details contained therein were already aware of them, and everyone else couldn't give a rats ass.


[The rest of this post has been redacted. look it up on my new blog if you care.]