I wake up to the general humming and the world crashes into me as I fall up to it, I am a floater in the philosopher’s drink. I am a drinking fountain next to the pool. I am a chair with pop machine conscience. I am carpet unforgiving. I am happy to be pleased by you. I am understatement and high pitched whining. I am fog horn delirium, scraping the flakes off the mock turtle anti-depression pill. I am sadness eating grapes. I am a founder of Ford Automotive industries. I am four hundred pounds of empty space. I am meaningless verbiage, the paint by number spirituality, I am random escapes from random pains. America the leper, your feet have fallen off, that’s OK I’m not walking, but where will you put your shoes, on the rack next to the cheese bite black people, but what have you done to the next generation of intelligentsia, we’ve given them bad ties and pain snacks, and they whine a lot. We’ll numb their minds with pot, and the propaganda is so good, so perfected, high art, the controlled come to it naturally, like ducks, quacking on the Mason’s plate, secretive with it’s savory juices. I shake my head. I sit up. The mind settles into drab. I dream of dirty hundred dollar Nikes chewing on my throat. I shiver at my own petulance. My own GM car, however used, small, and efficient. This laptop with its RAM taken from the teeth of a dark, poor, abused, peasantry a whole world away. And my absurd complaints. And my absurd pain. And my absurd joy. And my absurd moments of comprehension.
I have nothing to say. Oh the comfortable, comfortable people. How much comfort does it take to get to the center of the complacent pop? A one, a two, a three, says the owl, apathy like sour cream chips. Bob was walking down the street, don’t fall asleep Holly. I said don’t fucking fall asleep. Fuck your reality. Oh my god, what happened to those muscle relaxers? What happened to the far fetched first rate dimmer buttons?
No three things.
Take a break in half.
It’s not just the sugar anymore.
Fall down once for me.
Fall down and tickle the ashes.
Why is there always so much in my belly.
My cursor threatens me with insignificance.
Bob walked down the street, and nothing happened.
Nothing happened, as, is, the vast, majority.
There was nothing special about the sky, the street was plain, docile, and nothing so different from the sky. His footsteps were unnoticeably regular. The air was thick with normality. But not so thick as you would notice it. Everything lacks importance. It is forgotten breathing. The perfect forgettable moment, encapsulated, there were a few faded GM sedans and 70’s Japanese economy cars here and there. The temperature was like skin. Bob fell asleep and walked into the traffic, his brain splattered he died instantly.
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