Get real dude

The fluid reflected the light. It looked like digital roots emanating from his trunk. At that moment he wailed. Where are we? Do these seconds shape us?
    The seconds were ticking. There were a couple of dudes half a block back that were thinking of pulverizing me till I was laying on the street oozing out fluid, weather it be piss or blood, I did not want to find out. But there was this poor guy laying on his back, his large belly arcing across the air, and the river flowing below him. There was not much they could rob from me. I suspected that they had a gun, or maybe I was just trying to justify leaving this guy. I felt a split in reality. The person who stayed and the person who left. Not that I imagine myself braver than I am. But there is a kind of person who achieves things in the real world. It could be making their mark or helping a guy whose been beat. And there is a kind of person who does not do either of those things. I am starting to feel like the latter. And in a way those two, who were calling back to me to come to them, on a completely different level they got my number. They are saying, Hey you bum, your not an artist, let's teach you a lesson. And the punches rain down.
    It is not actually that there is another time or another self occupying that time. It is that this shell of a body and this time in this world is a tease. Locked a breath away from my own aspirations. My ability to abscond with the money has always rendered me without funds to pick up a check. It is getting redonkulous. Like right now I am hungry, my head is sorta floaty, and I am supposed to write something good. Shit.
    Being homeless is sort of great. You have sank so low in society that their is almost no way back in. Ya Know. I ain't gonna get no regular job, I am homeless. Can't work and be on the street at the same time. Just ain't natural. In someways it helps me as an artist 'cause no matter how far I fall I might as well keep trying. Keep looking for my next step.
      And the game continues.
    I was never a very crafty player. Ever since we were wee little ones Gabe would speak to about the higher ideal of art. He would sermon on the death of selling out for money and not keeping to the principles of creation. Where odes this get us, artists in our own mind, exiled and alone on the fringes of a city that could care less for our existence. That sounds a bit dramatic.
      The other problem is that I do not actually have any examples of what an artists life looks like. I assume they make art and someone helps them sell it for an amount of money that allows their business to continue. But that is the extent of my vision into the realm of success. Rather shameful actually. For someone with a working class demeanor it is hard to conceive of how people who are comfortable and wealthy exist. So I cannot sell to these people. I don't even really like these people. some of the kids I went to high school with who seem to have no idea just how cooshie and privileged their lives are make me sick. But of course I am thirty six and live in a bus.
     So how am I going to sell my art.. I am not. Not here. Not in Eugene. I need the internet to help out. Need to restart this with a long term plan. NOt some long shot in the dark. I think that is what is getting me down. My attitude is wrong, the whole thing was not sustainable. Even if it worked once or twice it could not keep making money's over and over. So this is where I am 'sposed to be. Back at this drawing table.