...I mean, Come On! Stop letting it drift away til dreams are routines, drip-dried residuals, to-be-mentioned sediment, evaporated sentiments frayed in dull ways, unraveled in happenstancical trash receptacles like thrift store threads...
C'mon, come help me fuck shit up! I mean, in a way that goes beyond words, and text, and talk, although certainly includes all those things, could start with those things, if they led to flesh colliding. Make a space available for miraculous rebirth of tha fonkey fonkey sheet, a miracle that will be taken for granted years later.
C'mon! I'm fucking bored, it's like everyone I used to play with are now small parts, isolated and destroyed. Who's pussy d'I gotta lick to get a drink in this joint? And I'm just talking a chilled nootropic here, nothing incriminating. We have the technology, and humans on the other end, to make things a lot cooler than they've been for so long I can barely remember.
What good is all this wizdem, if it feels so good to die today? And it doesn't even feel all that good, just good enough to be a noticeable draft, a sucking wound in the fabric of space time. But that's what I'm saying, man, I'm saying that it needn't be this way. Like there is a solution, but I'm not thinking about the one for that one problem that I read in a venerated book, rather I'm cracking open a different volume. To, I guess, write, cause it's so blank. Maybe, eventually, airy abstractions will add up to something of substance, crystallize salt of the earth from ether.
Like, for example, premises. A sequel to Carlos and his battle against the self-aware thermostat, or was it stockholm syndrome in an abusive relationship with the thermostat, or was it good natured sparring, or just a chess game, just something to do to pass the time in the endtimes bunker foreclosure. Good thing the thermostat wasn't superintelligent on top of the sentience. But perhaps sufficient company to nurse his final days via crackly speaker, to make a hospice of a home. Die comfortably, and maybe not with dignity, not externally, but that seems increasingly irrelevant when you've got the prophet eyes, increasingly blind, but in a little stroke of benevolence, the universe let you keep your vision at 20/20 in a family of ocular defectives, until it was no longer a vanity - internally rignified, red carpet royal road to the middle limbo, analgesic fuzz pageantry, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
It's choked with reference, it's a humble gravel farm access road with pebbles of reference - no citations, none of that prickly goo - just the clean dirt that they have in iowa, and a bit of the dirty dirt from a texaco restroom. They drilled for a little shale bonus zone of hypertext.
The Articles of the Free Dome. Are you hugging syntax, or bugging grammarcrats? Flogging dead Finnegan. Come on, it's all right here, ready to go, I've got a pile of kindling, tinder, timber, lumber, inflammible carbon-based fuel. Massive energy ready for release with a spark I can't create on my own. Don't got the edge, never did. I always relied on other people, to come on and help, catalyze my kind of fun. Metal on metal. And then flesh, and then metal again.
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