I've always wanted to see what happens when you write, or draw without thinking about what it is you're about to write and draw and just do so as it comes. I have John Coltrane's A Love Supreme running in the background, and I will now write whatever comes into my head under the music's influence.
Running, the poodle smelt of heaven dropped by noisy cymbalines transformed into rattlesnakes. The increasing dimness of the speech cocked the dog's head sideways, and a yellow halo formed across the sky with leaves talking about a probable rustle and the verdant fields accepting that the raucous moles would probably dig everything up and ruin it anyway. The smelly author in his undergarments didn't look so ugly, and neither did the tramp lolling about the streets for sustenance. Suddenly, the ugly were more meaningful in their disgusting filth, and the glamorous looked bland. "Come, we'll dance ourselves into a form, and that form shall quote poetry from our grubby uneducated hearts rife with mismanagement and anxiety. But to be human is to be flawed" and saying so, the brains popped into the skies like clouds forming instantaneously, raining down thoughts and good cheer on the filth because for a change the faces mean the change and the red dawn shall slowly spring forth into rainbows that might vanish with the advent of a black and silent chant prescribing sanctuary. Sanctuary, cried the African wrapped in purity, and the sounds and the screams, weird in their incoherency, felt true and had a place in this world. The beautiful fell away, and what was natural reined while the dance of passion around the blue fire continued forever and time ceased to be time and became a collage of images that juxtaposed memories with desires and things rarely felt like possessions and alive, talked about years of mute tolerance.