C. A. Winter Blog

Ebullient - She was plump and witty and ebullient. Dead sexy. Defenestrated - Thompson defenestrated all preconceived ideas around journalism, inventing a new form of communication; Gonzo journalism.  Ovoid - Blue and low hung, her foreign ovoid eyes struck him on the first glance; he fell hard.  Supperated - He squeezed the end of it, the mighty thing. Feverish and without delay, a white drop supperated from an invisible crevice.  Concupiscent - Keith Richards licked his lips and shone a concupiscent smile. Ululate - Hands wrung and writhed around her narrow legs and in a moment of great joy and immense confusion, her low whimpering moan grew to a horrific ululation. 

Another stream of conciousness while I'm stuck at home. Not stuck in a literal sense; I have a car and there's gas in it. I'm stuck in a mental way. I've been working on the final final final edit of Unworried all weekend. Thursday night I started it and today it's done and now I'm in this between state where I need to pick my fiance up in four or five hours from Altona which is thirty minutes away and I'm just kinda sitting here unable to make a real decision. It feels like I'm devoid of dopamine, which in turns means I'm devoid of decision making, which in turn means I'm sitting on the couch with my laptop and my phone switching between Reddit and Instagram like it's nobody's business. Scroll, I should stop, scroll on bigger screen, I should stop, email checking, scrolling I should stop. STOP!  So i coded(claude coded but I pay for the subscription so its MINE) I coded a spin the wheel program and had it spin between gaming, writing, re...

Goin’ Out, Bein A Creep by C. A. Winter Tired I was of my black apartment. Pitch floors, raven ceilings, blue mirror from the reflection off the floor into the bathroom. Light switch on the wall invisible with the hour and no reason to reach for it. Too late for the lights on, too odd. Two in the morning all I hear is the damn air conditioner unit. Blind men hear better, taste better, feel better. Can’t see very well though, my god-given right to this world, the visible world, taken away by something every night and why should I let it? This sun, this setting and this rising. Why do I conform to the dark and the heat and the cold its cycles bring? And what about the moon. I digress. If the sun won’t wait for me, I won’t wait for it. Big stupid ball in the sky goes to ruin a perfectly good day. Fingers on the blinds moving sideways show a street lamp fifty yards up. Same place every day but I don’t see it none because I don’t look yonder often. Defiant on the sidewalk, beaming on the we...

  You the creator, whispering to the mind When they look in to your soul  Do they stare at the black of your pupils Or the shadows in your memory The places where you lay to rest the demons of the past In your spirit  Is it kindness or merely  A kind of listless vacancy that glows red against the pitch horizon Rows of rooms unentered Each needing a new key Reception turned their back and now Sticky are your fingers as you walk along the halls Picking things from the floor, capturing them in the cups of your hands Little lightning bugs in a glass jar Guide the way oh captive, my captive An untimely suffocation for the journey ahead Soon the light will slip And soon you will falter Do not go gentle Into that Good night \\'