Words are made of thoughts. I wish they'd intrude. I am lonely, unemployed with a nine to seven routine of various activities.
A malignant trend courses through the head. Broadcasting it outside in the realm of trust where I am blank but set to go, it would have the appearance of a finely ambient glass of chocolate milk.
Sometimes I'm asked why the relevance hinges on me. If I had to say, it's because I keep getting vignettes, like something out of a beggar's bowl, a wooden saltiness that becomes increasingly less involved. And, like, everytime I think about it, it's something similar to trying to walk on John Carter's Mars; and all of this trivial, like, asinine things can never match up to the draw, the pull of whatever has been dropped, whatever has been shorn unevenly like a badly eaten candy-bar. Or something. I don't know why it has to be about me. I don't, pull my weight, and recently I feel cold in the summer; I have slept under a bedsheet since June. That's not what this is about, or what I, want to project.
This isn't a prerogative, a jarring hiss of due-dates incoming inevitably. I just ****. Which is not a surprise, like organic web shooters is a surprise, or, thinking up something like a dead polemic of a sewer draining the sordid leftovers of a consciousness.