A duck walks into a bar

It's three thirty in the morning.
No time to sleep.
Too much time to think.
It's kind of neat watching my fingers type out words that a second ago weren't even in my brain.
There's a movie on right now about the early years of Che Guevara, the man who launched a thousand t-shirts and a couple of revolutions, but it has subtitles which I like, but not at three thirty in the morning, and isn't it funny how the idealists like Che and Trotsky, and I'm just pulling it out of my ass when I say that Trotsky was an idealist but stay with me because it helps to make my point ...
Isn't it funny how the idealists like Che and Trotsky die violent early deaths while Stalin and Castro seem to live forever, and yeah, I know Stalin is dead, but if you lived in the USSR at the time trust me it seemed like he lived forever.

I guess that's it, but damn, I'm really getting into watching my fingers type out words click, click, click, and maybe one of these days I should try automatic writing or maybe automatic thinking, or automatic pancakes, or this.