Jul 2015
The world slides at your receipt
I need to ***, but that brings heat!
Eh. Feel me as I type. The description of which I bring is essential yet nonconsequential. The words spill with unending disregard for the futility of the fingers of which types them. I am to die. No one will read this. What is the purpose of this eccentric divulgence? Man is perpetuating artistic self-indulgence that allows for self, I said SELF, consuming fires.
Such a silly line I throw down for mere enjoyment. I like to hear this rhetoric spill of off my lips. Like a greasy…pig?
Why do we degrade this animal that so closely resembles us? Why do we cast it into the filth and mud to a place that it does not deserve? Arrogance I predict. The pig is not so far from us.
As I sit on this keyboard, depressed, unfulfilled, consumed, and disgusted. With whom? Not the pig, that is ensured. I type with violent disgust of myself and those of which I wish to share my existence.
Truly? Not so. I just want to express what I can with my fingertips. See how they dance and explore the keyboard. There seems to be nothing that holds them back. A vast plethora of subconscious goo for fuel.
I need to ***, but that brings heat!
Eh. Feel me as I type. The description of which I bring is essential yet nonconsequential. The words spill with unending disregard for the futility of the fingers of which types them. I am to die. No one will read this. What is the purpose of this eccentric divulgence? Man is perpetuating artistic self-indulgence that allows for self, I said SELF, consuming fires.
Such a silly line I throw down for mere enjoyment. I like to hear this rhetoric spill of off my lips. Like a greasy…pig?
Why do we degrade this animal that so closely resembles us? Why do we cast it into the filth and mud to a place that it does not deserve? Arrogance I predict. The pig is not so far from us.
As I sit on this keyboard, depressed, unfulfilled, consumed, and disgusted. With whom? Not the pig, that is ensured. I type with violent disgust of myself and those of which I wish to share my existence.
Truly? Not so. I just want to express what I can with my fingertips. See how they dance and explore the keyboard. There seems to be nothing that holds them back. A vast plethora of subconscious goo for fuel.
