Strung out on nothing. Automatic words like leftover radio signal from the northern hemisphere after radiological die off. Constellation of mixed messages, the medium in any case, entropic levelling out, misleading two dimensional mytho-metaphorical characteristic. There's a three dimensional manifold which expands indefinitely that makes these pegs they stuck in the ground pull in crazy ways and drag the fabrics til they rip. .
Should should should not sleep but sickness makes sleeping the only reasonable thing.
Should I save the world or be myself, my true defeatist self? cause not everybody gets a trophy, not when you get out of pre-school, I've come that far at least. It's only right and good and vile and beautiful that some of us succeed brilliantly and most of us fail and a few of us do more than fail, but fail abysmally, not giving up on bids for greatness in middle age like most decent mediocrities, but sticking with the selfish program and clinging to the gift-less ego grift. So at least there's the fact that I'm playing my part in the vile beauty ecology, being a preposition from which to be surveyed by heroes aeons in the future in a galaxy light-millennia distant, for a microsecond of fame.
Bronze Age can close, we got our antimony holdings cashed in time for the Mesozoic recast. Loneliness with the best quality people so close at hand. Platinum jewelry. Wasted plastic handset. For all the melancholia in Poland, it's still better than the chemical prepositions of the drug-drain. . Strung out on nothing is better than strung out on the evil powder planes with their vicious sharp edges and satirical state boundaries. Immoral porpoises.