Untitled
The lukewarm coldwater reality of the life that I know spirals into something that I cannot grasp. On every side is someone that I can't trust, or someone who is looking to take advantage of me. I let them in, I slam the door, and then I turn the tables. It is I who has the advantage of them, and they were not ready for what I had to offer. I rain hellfire and brimstone upon them with the reckless and collective abandon of the passive-aggressive, and they are overwhelmed by my mediocrity. I slip into the skin of a 70 percenter as easily as I uncork a bottle. Take this all of you, and drink from it: this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. I will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven.
Drink to the vices of our forefathers, drink to your continued state of homeostasis, drink the soul of the transgressors that you have vanquished. Drink deeply. Greatness is not measured as the sum of all of its parts, or by the things that you have collected. It is measured only by your own estimation of success, and your ability to withstand the shortcomings of others.
I climb, I climb, I climb, and at the top of the first landing is a long row of chorus girls, lined up with grins from ear to ear, moving with catlike precision together. The openings in their fishnet stockings expland as they raise a knee to their chest, and then they relax as their legs straighten. Contract, expand, peaks and troughs. The amplitude wavers in intensity when you approach the suppression of the things that you fear the most.
I fall in and out of dreamless sleep, and I catch passing glimpses of things very special to me. The things that I hold the most sacred.
A beautiful young girl with sandy hair falling aross her face. She is holding a daisy that she picked for me.
The first time that I got to first base. The act was nowhere near as profound as the anticipation and the tension that preceded it. I would almost be willing to unmake it all if I could relive the raw electricity that I felt in the moments before anything actually happened.
But I awaken, and realize that when you dwell on such things, you tend to attach undue significance to them, and you rule out everything else. Other people are having magical moments even as we speak, and the thing that they all have in common is that they mean absolutely nothing to you. Your apathy toward them reflects theirs toward you, and you can decontextualize it all into binary circuitry that means nothing to anyone.
0110100101001010100100100100100100100100100100100100100100100100100001001110110011010100100100100101010101111000110010010010010011001001001010010101010101001010011111001100100110011001
You, we, me, I, he, she, it, they. The pronoun game that robs people of their identity, their genetic code, the things that help others to identify them. They are inconsequential. Just more data that you may or may not make any sense of. It all depends on whether or not you have the right Rosetta Stone.
Anything repeated ad finutum tends to stabilize around a critcal mass of nonsense, and the diminishing marginal utility of it all mindfucks you. Nothing matters. You learn that experience is never a substitute for luck, and that there are no coincidences in the world. Freewill is an illusion that we repeat to ourselves when the television is broken, and we slap it on bumper stickers and keychains and market it to ourselves in a way that we create an euphoric cloak within which we can hide from our fate.
Every now and then I look at myself in 3rd person, and realize that I am about ten percent as effective at anything as I think I am, and that there is nothing special about me. Smart? Not hardly. Entertaining? I don't think so. Sensitive? Fuck you...go play with your kids.
The only thing that I have going for me is the restraint that helps me survive in your world. If my Id were allowed to roam unchecked, then I would probably go around punching people in the stomach all day, and that seems kind of silly to me. So as not to say that people don't deserve it, but I have better things to do with my time than constantly inflicting pain on others. Were that not the case, then I might reconsider, but for now, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
I climb, I climb, I climb, and on the next landing is a beautiful woman in a white evening gown. She approaches me, and I approach her. As I get closer, she takes my form, and I take hers, and I see myself through the eyes of someone else. We embrace, and I place her mouth upon my own, and breathe my own soul back into myself, and watch as she regains her own form, and falls limp and flaccid in my arms. I gain great satisfaction in destroying something beautiful, and I cast her aside, like she has done to so many in her life. I feel vindicated, I feel alive. But yet that is not enough. It never is, and my avarice is insatiable.
I tiptoe around the empty shell of a woman on the tiled floor in front of me, and open the window to take a look at the world in front of me. I can see the proletariat all around me, blissful in their own conception of existence. They have nothing to offer me, and I have nothing to offer them. Things have a way of working out in that regard, and I'm okay with that. Fair exchange is no robbery, and the ends justify the means. The rest is just details, ornaments, and frippery. I know that you probably don't want to know this, but people hate to die with secrets, and it is my bequest to all of you to share this burden. The more you learn, the less you know.
Drink to the vices of our forefathers, drink to your continued state of homeostasis, drink the soul of the transgressors that you have vanquished. Drink deeply. Greatness is not measured as the sum of all of its parts, or by the things that you have collected. It is measured only by your own estimation of success, and your ability to withstand the shortcomings of others.
I climb, I climb, I climb, and at the top of the first landing is a long row of chorus girls, lined up with grins from ear to ear, moving with catlike precision together. The openings in their fishnet stockings expland as they raise a knee to their chest, and then they relax as their legs straighten. Contract, expand, peaks and troughs. The amplitude wavers in intensity when you approach the suppression of the things that you fear the most.
I fall in and out of dreamless sleep, and I catch passing glimpses of things very special to me. The things that I hold the most sacred.
A beautiful young girl with sandy hair falling aross her face. She is holding a daisy that she picked for me.
The first time that I got to first base. The act was nowhere near as profound as the anticipation and the tension that preceded it. I would almost be willing to unmake it all if I could relive the raw electricity that I felt in the moments before anything actually happened.
But I awaken, and realize that when you dwell on such things, you tend to attach undue significance to them, and you rule out everything else. Other people are having magical moments even as we speak, and the thing that they all have in common is that they mean absolutely nothing to you. Your apathy toward them reflects theirs toward you, and you can decontextualize it all into binary circuitry that means nothing to anyone.
0110100101001010100100100100100100100100100100100100100100100100100001001110110011010100100100100101010101111000110010010010010011001001001010010101010101001010011111001100100110011001
You, we, me, I, he, she, it, they. The pronoun game that robs people of their identity, their genetic code, the things that help others to identify them. They are inconsequential. Just more data that you may or may not make any sense of. It all depends on whether or not you have the right Rosetta Stone.
Anything repeated ad finutum tends to stabilize around a critcal mass of nonsense, and the diminishing marginal utility of it all mindfucks you. Nothing matters. You learn that experience is never a substitute for luck, and that there are no coincidences in the world. Freewill is an illusion that we repeat to ourselves when the television is broken, and we slap it on bumper stickers and keychains and market it to ourselves in a way that we create an euphoric cloak within which we can hide from our fate.
Every now and then I look at myself in 3rd person, and realize that I am about ten percent as effective at anything as I think I am, and that there is nothing special about me. Smart? Not hardly. Entertaining? I don't think so. Sensitive? Fuck you...go play with your kids.
The only thing that I have going for me is the restraint that helps me survive in your world. If my Id were allowed to roam unchecked, then I would probably go around punching people in the stomach all day, and that seems kind of silly to me. So as not to say that people don't deserve it, but I have better things to do with my time than constantly inflicting pain on others. Were that not the case, then I might reconsider, but for now, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
I climb, I climb, I climb, and on the next landing is a beautiful woman in a white evening gown. She approaches me, and I approach her. As I get closer, she takes my form, and I take hers, and I see myself through the eyes of someone else. We embrace, and I place her mouth upon my own, and breathe my own soul back into myself, and watch as she regains her own form, and falls limp and flaccid in my arms. I gain great satisfaction in destroying something beautiful, and I cast her aside, like she has done to so many in her life. I feel vindicated, I feel alive. But yet that is not enough. It never is, and my avarice is insatiable.
I tiptoe around the empty shell of a woman on the tiled floor in front of me, and open the window to take a look at the world in front of me. I can see the proletariat all around me, blissful in their own conception of existence. They have nothing to offer me, and I have nothing to offer them. Things have a way of working out in that regard, and I'm okay with that. Fair exchange is no robbery, and the ends justify the means. The rest is just details, ornaments, and frippery. I know that you probably don't want to know this, but people hate to die with secrets, and it is my bequest to all of you to share this burden. The more you learn, the less you know.