[ensonar]

Since no one is talking, I figured I might try and start up an automatic writing / exquisite corpse thread.

Surrealism is one of my great loves. Surrealists have devised several games aimed at reaching the subconscious dream-state. One game was automatic writing, where you just start writing, non-stop without giving yourself a moment to judge or think about what is coming next. It most always comes out as just a bunch of jumpled up words and phrases, that don't make much sense. But when looking back at it you can usually tell things about yourself and where you're at subconsciously.

Another game is called the exquisite corpse. This involves a group of people who either write words, or draw on a piece of paper. Each person draws or writes on a portion of the paper then covers it up, then the next person continues the drawing, not knowing what the previous people before them have contributed.

What I'd like to do here is somewhat a combination of the two, and also something I'm sure you've probably seen before. It's basically just writing a story, prose, or whatever. Each one of us should just write a word, or small phrase and then allow the next person to continue.

For more information on surrealist games, you might want to check out this link:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Surrealist_games

Or this book:

http://www.amazon.com/o/ASIN/1570620849/re...7407660-6398221

[ensonar]

And so we began where we'd never begun. In the middle...

[BratscheWarrior]

of a chicken who was too tired to cluck...

[ryan]

and so it sat dejected, because on its self importance it reflected

[BratscheWarrior]

in the mirror, an image he could no longer face...

[ensonar]

the face of sadness, the face of worry, the face of pity. A mountain arose out of a small pile of perfectly preserved...

[BratscheWarrior]

jam...the strawberry kind that he loved so much...but could never have again, because...

[BratscheWarrior]

...in his childhood, his mum used to throw jam at him when he was bad...

[ensonar]

And because of this, he was always ducking, running for cover. She never learned to lift her head and gaze into the...

[BratscheWarrior]

abyss that was her soul. She thought (as only chickens do), "what is a soul?"...