Pretty Strange Words

I like the idea that words are like paint. I see them blending together with descriptive thickness and scraped across a blank canvas in the form of a mountain sunset behind a small little cabin in the woods nestled next to a stream of consciousness so shallow you can hop across it in one leap and bound onto a path that leads you back to the vanishing point of an appellation trail. It looks like Salvador Dali and Bob Ross had a baby, and that baby had a baby with Jack Kerouac and Richard Brautigan's baby—pretty strange words.