intoxicated: "Learning to LIve" by Dream Theater:

[sheldonbartleby]

A sequined dress of bad habits. Of UN Resolutions passed with gusto and no effect. I really feel like a cock dealing with these people. Seen as some sort of aggressive weirdo. Kneebone interjects: "What? What?" Oh, a laugh: "Well. There is always one. Everyone contributes to the Whole". I don't feel like a Taoist or a Buddhist or whatever. I think, am I the Brains of this Operation? I do not wish to be the Brains. I am not a product of the 1950s. I am a product of the 1990s, with it's existential emotionalism; logical artistry. As opposed to the current generation, who are the Parallel Kids: Their left-hand path being the last dying gasps of a Classical Era, while the Future beckons, with it's neon intuitive moon-glow: while we measure the length of our shadows they're already catseyes among the silhouttes: the silhouette has the same recognition as a sculptured face to these sub-human, devolved products of a Chernobyl generation: a sculptured face does not have the what, je nais se qua or whatever, of the silhouette, anonymous, who can be written upon, who can be the unique view at the blogspot, the podcast at the library of the new auteur: the amateur. The floodgates open and we drown. I think like this and we speak of what. Of what do we think. I cannot follow, because I am a fool, arranging deckchairs on that old inflatable, while life, being merely a game, renders us all to be toys, and fucking is a playful, and youthful, process of fetishisation: but is it the honest youth? When we didn't define in either/or, peace vs. war, but maybe as, that what defined our freedom was our Imagination, the kind that Faulkner implicitly and Blake explicity talked of, that is our childish self, and my awareness of this, and these sort of elements always as the mosquitoes of my conciousness... Shouldn't I thus be alone? What have I decided without wishing to? The girl who said earlier tonight: "Oh I've been out with a few guys who were shy and intelligent: but what do I talk about?"; what doom to we share when life is not a game but a beautiful prism of light whose refractions reflect whatever petit sensations we allow ourselves to attain. And how do we describe that but in the shocked aghastness of the Islamic Fundamentalist when asked oversimplified, vaguely insulting question of Allah: this is beauty, motherfucker, and I'm ready to eradicate your misapprehension with extreme prejudice in the name of your - crucial - lack of respect. This is what people like me have. We're making Persian Rugs without imperfections. We deserve this. We talk to those who approach us out of love with a sophisticated fear recieved by instinct as such but, cannot be reflected against with erudition. It is a cancer. Do we not deserve to be alone at this point?

I fear I become ineloquent and self-prophetic as the days grind away that fragile cartilege of youth: is this entry my first bonerub splintered arthritic agony? The world is a plate of beans. The most beautiful, aweinspiring, heavenly plate of beans: but, a plate of beans. Why am I hung up on it's beauty? Why can I not realise that it is a plate of beans?