a little bit of nonsense until punched into a search button of google retaining only 1 result...
i'm so glad that i don't have to love someone with the sort of love baggage that one loves someone and their in-laws...
how i will never be a father is a little bit "demeaning" but almost all of existence per se is a bit like that... but i will also not be a failure a waste of air a short-coming someone with an unhappy wife...
i'll continue to pet a cat dreaming of enough money to own a german shepherd or: god send a Rottweiler... 72 of 'em...
when love was something that a mind and heart of a teenager occupied itself with... a 21 year old exacted with a few months of leech-suckling ****... between Edinburgh, London and St. Petersburg...
in between i know that i was always alone... it doesn't matter more and more... it's become an affair of an armchair when there's the body towing the feet into a marathon distance circa 7hours... for the mind, though: i'm alone and aloof... teasing solipsism - as a St. Augustine teased with his soliloquies...
but so much comfort to not idealise love like one might: prior to first contact with one's own imperfection...
an armchair in the mind: frozen and almost breathing with all that's leather... so possibly everything not being in love: in love and for all those divisions of enterprise, expectation: metaphysical labours...
this almost faux pas of investing in breeding children to somehow find oneself surrounded by "loved ones" on a deathbed - dozing off on opiates in pain and drizzle...
as Caesar is to be cited: a sudden death - all others are tedium upon tedium upon too much... yes... it's becoming comforting: comfortable is not enough to say what it feels like:
to not be in love to not be divided to not be spare to not be living under scrutiny of expectations and failings, ambitions and what not...
placebo solipsism has made its mark: the sort of movies that depicted what happened to people in England in the 1990s are no longer made...
it just so happens i write this almost too lazily: like i don't want to write it: of course i don't... but sometimes an exercise in the realm of res extensa away from thinking cannot be helped: writing is sometimes more than speaking is and as such: i don't have to orate i don't have to peacock or want to be understood with formal standards of communication that need to kept when interacting with... supermarket attendees...
a carrot is a carrot is what's before a donkey's horizon when dangling on a stick...
currently i am willing to leave behind Hangul & Katakana... i want to escape these phonetic encodings with all my will & joy... harder to escape タオ (tao)
or... how geometry was "refined" with ロ (rho) and Δ i.e. d(elta)... i also abhor exasperated social-commentary poetics... i don't have enough worries to worry others with (them) - being absentee...
but not being in love: not being claustrophobic and this limited by a Noah's pairing... i'll have to return to English, purely, and leave all other languages where i found them...
that i remember this teenager who would catch the bus and wanted to be seen by the Ursuline girls from Gants Hill to Ilford.... what a waste of time to want to be strategically focused in third-person narration with a c.c.t.v. scrutiny for an android limb attached to one's shoulder...
O that's most certainly rolled... from top to tool and whatever diacritical distinction you might want to add...
Argentinian red: a Trivento malbec... a solo project a solo concern... it's so still persistently well curated this little scrap of heaving a heaven of purpose...
but it's not going to be a celebration: outright... i don't want a sphinx jinx nibbling at my toes when they start to turn all twinkly...
it's enough... it truly is... enough... i don't have to love from some enforced demand, some expectation... something lubricated something prone to succumb to a predictability: i can be a boredom on my own terms and i can simply be bored, too... also on my own *****-nilly choicest of festivities...
i can forget my birthday and Christmas Eve - i can accustom myself to a freedom that only solo endeavours can ever disclose... i can find some variation of solace... it's almost mesmerizing... it's zingy it's zesty it's the "metaphor" associated with mountain air, or a perfume akin to freshly washed bed linen...
in bed today i came across one redeeming passage in Knausgaard's my struggle vol. 4 - an encounter with his friend on a bus... Jan Vidar... and talk of how blues is ******* etc.
the redeeming passage about bicycles, and a purposive pointlessness of... a devalued attention toward attitude... aardvark... verbiage but not teasing peacocking... i'm not tired i'm exasperated and i know this is plain ****** silly...
like Mozart's last words (which were not an epitaph): this is for me... that i have the "right" to showcase these words to adamant voyeurs is another barrel of herrings...
it's not like i'll stash them somewhere where they might become more valuable: given my death and enough patience on everyone's behalf... i also don't want to drink too much: but of course it's not what one might expect from a paragraph of prose...
nor wanting a lyric or a rhyme... as it stands: black boys in ***** and in the riots... i'm also tired of everything cream-cheese ****-floral patterns and this addition of coffee **** and i'm tired of gesticulating something "lesser" when the lesser is circumcised and i'm tired of guilt i'm tired of something being translated in a way that has to transcend death and i'm tired of wanting or appealing to white, mostly anglo-saxon women's whims and *******-tying... i too have a fetish a geisha girl without a ****'s depth to match-up to that of whale's great dip... how's that? the pendulum swings to & fro... i'm tired of wanting something i either don't... or will not have...
i'm tired of wanting or having to compensate myself in the genitalia Olympics of how's it pairing... up? may i ask? hardly a frown-upon these demands of topic... it's there this low hanging fruit of baritone tickling shaved *******... for one man's 12" is another man's violin-esque of a fiddling with a beard: that has certainly become a welcome addition with age... that little bit of something to cover the chin and neck...
***** so made a spectacle of... i'll scratch my Eden region of the body... and it will be the same sensation coming from the elongated worth of a stubble...
troubles with interludes: i like the words laconic and lethargy - both don't expand into an explanation akin to "conservative" and "to conserve": nor rigidity and glue...
how i've stashed enough worth that might be deemed necessary for it to be categorised as "lye fff": life... and not one of those awkward lapses of moments to delve into existence (out of every instance: a persistence) like all solo endeavours are to be devalued because... one isn't... i'm an omega male-on hard... pass...
write long enough and after a while the most random trivia-esque posits come to the fore... memory expands... imagination shrinks to a size of a peanut: bellow: how come this pink elephant-sized grease of a form come into a room and expect seeing the constellations?
how ridiculous: from time to time... when not interchanging definite and indefinite articles properly... "properly"... how very odd... how very english... how all so queary: odd but not queer... same but not **** bogus or Duke Wellington / Harry Enfield... skewing into -esque...
how sensibly so... how anything this must be how they attired... and how things mattered and how it was the year 2021 and how i have to scribble enough to want: looking afar and toward... my own certain summary of deeds: that i'll be dead too: "alas"...
a century's worth of time from now... from these numb to nimble fingertips... the choicest of breeding comparisons of towing chew... brevity exampled when stressing such restrictions as kosher... enough to grant pork benevolence... elf-half-a-vegan troop of emptied stomachs... this endless gravity into darkness...
i might as well pretend to squint from too much lemon & je suis... hail "Zeus"... joy begot sussing out the standards... all very limited: progressing... when laughter came to be depicted in writing and the Spaniards wrote something the Germans agreed to really quickly: or how the western slavs strode with a pronoun i.e.: ja ja ja ja ja ja ja....
yore... yawn... why Y is given a consonant status (elsewhere)... and is not treated as a samogłoska? i don't want to know... yes... being bilingual can be bothersome... almost schizoid-ascription-prone...
because the mezzo full-fattening bogus is cut short / off... i can translate... to hell with it... feed it to the pigs: throw it against a democracy... don't bother refining anything... feed it to the poach and tickle... make mediocre the desiring quest for all things... thus lazily begot...
feed it to the pigs... smear it in mud, ****, tripe and ghosts... call it an alimony of literacy: vote: X... i'm tired and have been too belittled to continue with an entertainment of... having to care.