Is this the way it ends?
I've been playing this game for, well, the truth is, I don't know how long. The rules are simple. Do not get caught. And also, you're on your own.
A throbbing in the temple brought on by too much masculine solemnity, and a habit of overthinking the unknown. These are more than the symptoms of more than a cold I've just contracted. They are signs of a man bereft of his God-given simplicity.
These are the eaters of potential in the map of the real world... They will make me dream in dark and convoluted dreams toninght. Thoughts, more airy thoughts that give ice cream towers made of fibreglass a significance that overshadows the whole world. Sets it on fire. Apocaliptically constructed dervishes . A neuron's length thin in their importance. I dervish here, I dervish there. The world has not forgiven me, I think. But the world hasn't so much as stopped to inquire why I should dance a middle eastern apocalyptically-inspired dance.
Do I know, for instance, that it does not matter if I get caught? That these are the spring shoots of a wily petty empire anyway? One that has a plan of escaping me. And art is not a day dream. ART in bold letters, ART in cursive. What does it matter? To desire, not to desire, to desire less than anyone else... Is it that the world has deserted me or just my poor desires?
I put the book under my bed stand. It is of the good kind. It is the kind of book that makes you want to savor its thickness as if it were a good meal. I imagine the pages as a bed of mashed potatoes. A flick of the tongue can unleash your full genius.Something as simple, something as subtle. But I've lost it... What was that thought again? I've forgotten it too. Nevermind. I will strike a philosophers pose to make the point seem seem profound.
Listen here! People need to understand. That's it. That's all.
A throbbing in the temple brought on by too much masculine solemnity, and a habit of overthinking the unknown. These are more than the symptoms of more than a cold I've just contracted. They are signs of a man bereft of his God-given simplicity.
These are the eaters of potential in the map of the real world... They will make me dream in dark and convoluted dreams toninght. Thoughts, more airy thoughts that give ice cream towers made of fibreglass a significance that overshadows the whole world. Sets it on fire. Apocaliptically constructed dervishes . A neuron's length thin in their importance. I dervish here, I dervish there. The world has not forgiven me, I think. But the world hasn't so much as stopped to inquire why I should dance a middle eastern apocalyptically-inspired dance.
Do I know, for instance, that it does not matter if I get caught? That these are the spring shoots of a wily petty empire anyway? One that has a plan of escaping me. And art is not a day dream. ART in bold letters, ART in cursive. What does it matter? To desire, not to desire, to desire less than anyone else... Is it that the world has deserted me or just my poor desires?
I put the book under my bed stand. It is of the good kind. It is the kind of book that makes you want to savor its thickness as if it were a good meal. I imagine the pages as a bed of mashed potatoes. A flick of the tongue can unleash your full genius.Something as simple, something as subtle. But I've lost it... What was that thought again? I've forgotten it too. Nevermind. I will strike a philosophers pose to make the point seem seem profound.
Listen here! People need to understand. That's it. That's all.
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