Is it possible, that navigating through the grit and the gore of our present age, I have seen nothing; perceived nothing. "Give him a chance," she said, one windy afternoon in the third floor of the Woodstock Exchange. The room was an eclectic mishmash of scenes from all over the world. The building however, was stark and grey.
I had not been successful there. In fact, I had been quickly replaced, and no one missed me in that post. Buck up. Feel okay about it. At least you had the opportunity. And there was Jabu too. Jabu never made it either. She got a hulking Zimbabwean actor to fill your shoes; the lady with starlight in her hair.
"Give him a chance. That's all I'm asking."
The plain villainy of our modern aeasthetics is what troubles me. Where are we going to be in 50 years from now? Which is just a page-turning away. Endless distractions mar my sight. I am hardly human in this sweltering heat of disassociation. Part of me lies here and another there, and without me actually being dead.
Iron and steel and cement are the solid comments on our existence. We flesh beings do not truly exist.
I don't blame her for getting rid of me. I don't see things clearly anyhow. My mind is an endless maze of mirrors, a chasm of reflections that can't touch on the truth. People look at me like a crusted over jar and they do not care for it at all. The mind has infinite reaches and many there must be who get completely stuck.
I had not been successful there. In fact, I had been quickly replaced, and no one missed me in that post. Buck up. Feel okay about it. At least you had the opportunity. And there was Jabu too. Jabu never made it either. She got a hulking Zimbabwean actor to fill your shoes; the lady with starlight in her hair.
"Give him a chance. That's all I'm asking."
The plain villainy of our modern aeasthetics is what troubles me. Where are we going to be in 50 years from now? Which is just a page-turning away. Endless distractions mar my sight. I am hardly human in this sweltering heat of disassociation. Part of me lies here and another there, and without me actually being dead.
Iron and steel and cement are the solid comments on our existence. We flesh beings do not truly exist.
I don't blame her for getting rid of me. I don't see things clearly anyhow. My mind is an endless maze of mirrors, a chasm of reflections that can't touch on the truth. People look at me like a crusted over jar and they do not care for it at all. The mind has infinite reaches and many there must be who get completely stuck.
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