WRITING A BOOK, HIPPIE?
WRITING A BOOK, HIPPIE?
WRITING A BOOK, HIPPIE?
WRITING A BOOK, HIPPIE?
WRITING A BOOK, HIPPIE?
a series of million year naps
a series of million year naps
a series of million year naps
a series of million year naps
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WRITING A BOOK, HIPPIE?
a series of million year naps
a series of million year naps
a series of million year naps
a series of million year naps
a series of million year naps
I've written a book to share and my goal is to give in a way to that which inspired me.
I did most of my reading on a fishing boat in Alaska; Ken Kesey, Charles Bukowski, John Fante, Kirk Vonnegut were my favorites.
WRITING A BOOK, HIPPIE? IS COMPLETE, EDITED, ENDORSED AND READY FOR MARKET
Below is a synopsis of the completed work which has been endorsed with a 'thumbs up' by a well known published American writer and a friend.
Bryan Conley
showcases bitter-sweet prose
in his first literary work “Writing a Book, Hippie?â€
The story tells a true and adventurous journey
of a young man’s trek to Alaska’s Inside Passage.
The completed inspiration derives itself
some 20 years later after recent, less fortunate
adventures occur, for which Conley provides his
audience a sense of time travel by using dream
states referred to as ‘series of million year naps’.
While the story builds, fragile social angles attach
themselves with unequalled imagination for
the reader. The apparent suggestions and looks
provide a personal understanding of a larger picture.
His contemporary insight into tragedy, kindness,
and the undeniable over analysis featured front
to back deliver this unique take on contemplating
the human condition in a traditional beat poet style.
Rushing in from the outskirts of a newly perceived nonconformist example in an uncertain display that we’d trodden upon this city's walkways I took note that each of our stories in every way revealed another. A grand design where referring to long math problems and chalk dust faded to moments of clarity. The burnt out streetlamps weren't necessary tonight I realized as the moons ominous glow became something to regard in thanks once again. There were birds that flew lower in the moonlit sky from one side of the street to the other landing in small nests built on building’s ledges from within giant letters of signs. To make your home in a capital G or a lower case r....the O's must be the first to go I thought. She didn't want espresso as much as she just wanted to walk about and notice things like birds flying above and landing someplace else. I hope this is honest since I am tired and going to rest now, so goodnight to all things that are done in vanity but less is ‘the million year nap.’
Whether or not it was still alright to produce much needed tires, or cars, or parts for them, or tinker toys, or legos, or fiberglass swordfish, or more bowling balls, or poofy silk shirts, or radar detectors, or medicine balls, or trampolines, or disposable razors, or Halloween costumes, or fantasy swords, or rubber ducks, or hula hoops, or racing handlebars, or detective magazines, or fake blood, or fake dog poop, or rubber chickens, or oversized foam cowboy hats, or bean bags, or talking fish, or ping pong paddles, or anything mass produced and stored on shelves to be sold at a later date for consumption of some sort still took place somewhere off in a factory where supply and demand met a mind of disastrously insane proportional inventory I was trying to chip away at.
As the gears resounded and shallow breathing took place upon the ergonomic plastic Greyhound bus terminal seating, somewhere Neely's mind and my own had drifted melodramatically beneath a slow haunting whisper of the progressive scheduling. The automatic doors whooshed open randomly and twenty feet away a man flipped through his morning paper in an extraverted discussion pertaining to his opinions of his findings within. Nearby a wall clock advanced with its regularly geared click diagnosing minutes.