Why am I writing this? Call it a Korean tea ceremony. Cigarettes were all I had. This is where the willpower really matters, where the rubber meets the road. Energy is mass times the speed of light squared. Zeno says the arrow never reaches worth. It's not worth the walk to get a bottle of energy drink.
Succumbing is becoming a numbing comfort, the only thing worth anything. There's a glut of sunrays on the outside, they'd do me good in theory - first principles regime, god save the queen - still superstitious, i'm not praying for anything, lest apocalypse begin - will work for food, will increase energy efficiency - what? no? no place for me - understood - it will make my family unhappy for me, stretch the boundaries of charity yet again, but, oh wait a second, i gotta take this call.
Tea don't do it for me anymore. Maybe it's this deck of contexts. In 2013, I bought my first NYC loft. I paid for it by coming up with a new euphemism for masturbation. They said it couldn't be done, but I did it. Scientifically. I used a million monkeys. Even more remarkably, I'd nearly forgotten what orgasm felt like, but I remembered what it thought like. Consequently, I enjoyed the benefits of owning a multi-million dollar apartment. Status, that's all I'd really wanted, all along. Sure, I flirted with philanthropy, in my youth. I flirted with self-destruction in adolescence. They gave me a key to the ICBMs in adulthood. Thought they could trust me with it. I'd be the deciding vote. I couldn't believe it was real. It was a surreal strata of status, but it was a pure sky blue in every direction, they showed me the location of every silo, they showed me computer simulations of what would happen in this scenario, that one. To give a nom de plume a raison d'etre for its next novel, I, yi yiyiiih. Which way to the furnace? Everything must burn.