I will trivialize existence, because of my inability or unwillingness to power, like there's a difference. Oh, people think they're clever when they make distinctions between unable and unwilling, wielding semantic icepicks, why'n't'ya suck my ice dick? I'll insult the universe, every sentient being, before I die, a reason to live, I'll throw my whole country under the bus, because of my mythical Canadian expectation of vacation.
Bring the impotent rage cock to climax with verbal mechanics and mercifully diffuse anger back into a maudlin mist. It's as great a good for as many as can exist in this best of all possible worlds. Seems I don't have much to say to anyone after all. And when I get home, there's only enough energy to negate, then slump down plateaus, bumpetybumpslump til sleep. That's all anything gets, this trivialization. But it's not a trifle. Trifles are delicious. This is Beneke Fabricators ducking the righteous taxman who found the fraud, a dead planet that used to make things, acidified continental faces charred with fjords, lovely baroque feel though. At least I think so. And Slarti would agree.
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