Writing is fun for the fun of writing. Many people write for the fun of it. Writing must be very popular as so many write via texts instead of speaking to others. Interesting.

How many people paint a picture in their heads to portray the author of whatever they are reading?

Some think they can determine the age, gender, even other physical attributes based on how what they read is written. It is fun to see the face on a person who was convinced that what they were reading was written by a thin black woman when really it was a fat old man who drive long haul trucks. Or, vice-versa.

What will happen when AI (artificial intelligence) starts writing stories, diaries, fiction, non-fiction, biographies (how I became a computer…)?

Writing is so varied and so interesting. There is the calligraphy, the style, font, context, language, topic…

Writing is also a mixture of pictures and language. The earliest that is enjoyable to study are some of the cave art humans painted thousands of years ago. There is the story of life, or hunt, or war, or religion. Such simple scrawls inspire the imagination of the viewer/reader.

Yes, writing is fun. For me, a form of therapy taking my mind and causing it to come together in concentration, at least for a few minutes.

Tonight, thinking about writing. And now, out of thin air, a poem will emerge. I don’t yet know what will come out but it always does come out, much like shit or the breathing of air already spent.

***

Green grows such strands grasping gushing soils………………………………………………………..rain decides who and what where there shall survive………………………………………………………..rain falls upon heads pondering why?>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>?why

Red  rolling such strands resisting reason so…………………………………………………………………….dry which way rolls radiant sun’s reddish ruin rising below………………………………………………….dry falls upon heads pondering why?<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<?why

Blue skies beckon shadows past lost by so and such…………………………………………………….smile besides being and what where there shall survive……………………………………………………….smile falls upon heads pondering why?—————————————————————————-?why

Grass ready below

Ruddy seas agree’n’

Bastard grief romance

with reality of normal to return, dry monsoon where dust slithers through oxen rib, skeleton dry upon a desert. Hark this mood as soon the spirals spin out of and into a bed of unmade ambitions. Foundering ship of torment where spirits scream.

as so it was it is so as

Mast splintered after so many weathered storm

Sails of sanity stripped bare

Anchor chain rusted where it holds feeble strength, while what it all means…

a flower grown full past wither past winter spring and fall

and so, for tonight, for what some is nothing, for others, an eternity…

a man just thinking, thinking, thinking…

goodnight.