June 2009
11 posts
It's not funny, really.
And the music drums deep in my ears, the giggling storms through my brain, a colorful bullet ripping through layers of skin, skull, useless lumps of flesh.
Scarlet-stained white gloves, neverending laughter and dim lights circling around; I just want to vomit. I want to get off,
you must be this sane to ride.—
Contra-auguste groans his lungs out of his mouth, pirouettes puke out the bits...
Nothing's impervious, really.
Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank and of having nothing to do: humankind at her feet
stared upon the clearest example of purity.
Because before we all realize, we’ll be falling down our own rabbit hole and
tic-toc, tic-toc.
Be trapped into our own wonderland. A tea party of subsistence, a celebration of our own misplaced sense of beauty and gore....
It's a replica, really.
And one after another, we drop out of a womb into our mindless corruption. Like some kind of industrial factory, mindlessly racing to surpass a set amount of product.
Because we are all product. Yet we like to think of ourselves highly.
Since the first dropped out of a womb,
the first dropped out on all of us. Let us down and condemned
our already-otiose continuance.
But we wear our pretexts,...
They're all a paragon, really.
And it’s because of our lack of humbleness, our lack of self-acceptance and the improbability of being at peace with our current endowments.
Around the first century B.C., plastic surgery was already being practiced by Romans. Nose, lips and teeth repair for cosmetic purposes, Physician Cornelius Celsius practiced the procedures of circumcision reversal and male breast reduction.
Because...
It's a fake, really.
Because honestly, I’m a lie, and everything that shaped me into the fake I am. But don’t feel sorry; so are you.
When you hold a seashell up to your ear you can hear what some claim to be the ocean. It’s pleasant to think that an object as simple as a seashell can trap in the essence of the sea and liberate it on demand when you hold it up. A beautiful chime of waves freed for...
It's oneiric, really.
To attempt to control totalitarian control over other or oneself. It’s a self-spreading disease, virus.
Although the easy way out would be to admonish others for our own acquisitiveness. The first documented case of cancer was noted by an English doctor, who in 1775 discovered that prostate cancer, was rather not rare amongst chimney sweepers.
And if only those people would’ve left...
It's futile, really.
And it really is when you think about it.
According to suicide statistics, Monday is the number one day to blow out your brains. Just when you think “Fuck I don’t like Mondays.” There is always, always, someone who will hate it more or less than you.
Above
Below
and there’s always someone there, and you’re most likely the miserable middle, the one bastard who...