Average aesthetics impressed upon the dreamers asleep with the television on. They are selling validation, the slippery crutch of the only comfort craved. Forget the details, we are ****** clockwork, counted on to come, but never arrive, where saying no to yes likens to tallying time until what you are chewing wants to be swallowed. Pearly white definition grinding moments into pulp for the insatiable, that never goes hungry. This is all of it. ******, ***, and the rest. The patriarch in his Sunday best. The wild generation, rejecting the paranoia of their parents. The whole of the ******* world who copes with a regurgitated existence by selling narcissism. Ours is a secret we are trying to tell with our lives, when itβs realized it dies, causing mystics to spill their insides over silence, the answer that can never be vocalized. Lo emotion, the romance of confusion! The one thing that can have no institution, in our modern illusion.
I was watching "The Talk" in the doctor's waiting room. My repulsion followed as such.