26 Apr 2013


few things are more obnoxious than a mass of people on their way somewhere - and being somewhere stationary in their long wake, so ugly and dusty in every sense, is such a gross place to be, intimate with human traffic, pedestrian, or worse, vehicular - if you have the shit luck of living in such a place, be glad at least you're not on the ground floor with the most dense settling of litter, particulate air, carbon monoxide, and noise pollution, but soundwaves penetrate walls, so i roll out of bed to force foam into my ears - he has a horn and he's on his way somewhere, it's his video game, he's player one, kid fuckin' A - why should he waste his thoughts on anyone else, it's a road, not a home - if he lived here, he'd be home right now, which is why he's pathologically driving - no one had to define skeet for me, the certain je ne sais quoi of this rat trap

jot - seeing the green and staying put anyway - jot - i love it when the kettle sounds human, and incense smoke seems happy to see me - jotting dreams of a software work-camp in labrador city - my own method of organizing files on the company servers to fill up the first day, since i don't know what i'm supposed to be doing, and fighting panic - then creating a personal profile, which could maybe pass for an official task for now anyway, let me squeak through this day - also wanna impress my desk neighbor because she's smart and cute and from the questions she asked me it seems like we're in the same bind, so there's a bond, except it'll quickly emerge i'm on some level that leaves me in the dust, i got here by accident, she's got basic competence at least

remembering this dream opens up a whole commercial plaza full of dream history in that sector, the work-angst dreams, finding myself desperately employed in some old job i barely remember how to do, or thrust into an absurd new one where i don't know what's up, but must seem like i do

it's all gotta be in the soup, it'll do, there's nothing you can do about it, and the tasters can stand it, and fuck twitter, i'm sick of hearing about it - and zing, not the good kind of zing, i wonder how long this synaptic regulatory syndrome will last - it's many kinds of awful, but more kinds of lame, which is the mercury lining of the dendritic tumour duvet - it's not the world, it's me, even if it feels like the world is crushing me from the outside, but i need to know what course it takes, to conquer that fear, so later on, i'll have the benefit of having been around that block so i'll know what to expect when the system collapses to the point where i can't reliably obtain SSRIs

unwill cataplexed slowmo solar blitzkrieg quickee neuron mashup, Dr. Green Forest Road MD, and keep your fuckin mouth shut, turd-whistle, cause you don't know anything, and even if you did, there'd be no point in saying it. Shitheel. That's a thing. Ah. Zingsong. Shiver. Shudder. sleep of sorts

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