LAST DREGS OF THE DAY. 9pm. everything's swimming in red. Beach Boys chaser. okay.
I only want to exist in flattering light--we were born into sterile fluorescence, skin against skin against plasma, and Fate owes us these nights under the red, a vaseline-coated glow that softens our ugliness...
In these leather booths there exists a built-in reminder of mammalian death, of slaughter in the name of another's comfort: of institutional sadists who deal in headache and palm sweat; this is release from that, those automatic monsters of bureaucracy. As they say, "Don't let the bastards grind you down..."
I heard today, "Harsh words from such a pretty girl." Thank you for the reminder, because sometimes I forget, honestly. Sometimes I don't know which side of the mirror I'm living on. Sometimes I am inclined to believe that I am you:
I impose your attention span on my own language and can only write in abridged, insane bursts.
Forgive me this low inertia, if nothing else.
"Have you ever stared at a wall and grown conscious of your own immortality's slow disappearance?"
"Harsh words from such a..."
It's happening all the time. The planned obsolescence of humanity is unavoidable and, perhaps, the final thread connecting every last stalwart misanthrope to the social genome. Despite all indicators of superiority, there's a biological flaw engraved on the double helix: our own wasting.
Reflect on the apparatuses of death that we choose to hasten this process (pointed glance at the beer, the cigarette, the abundance of solitude encroaching upon my psyche, the 12 layers of irony I alternately apply and deconstruct in an effort to cope with these more-or-less aesthetic choices--but hey, I've chosen all of it)
--how few of us, proportionately-speaking, choose to permanently break their gaze with the bedroom wall.
The wall does not ask you what mutated Cognition could be born from such an intellectually bankrupt activity--but still, unfailingly, it forms.
The waking brain produces phantasms that compete with our buried ghosts; the perverted dynamics that only sleep could engineer. The Unconscious dictates the fantastic, while an unhinged Consciousness combines all the sickness of dreams with human logic. And it is the truly sick who stop having a preference, or even a choice, between the two.
I only want to exist in flattering light--we were born into sterile fluorescence, skin against skin against plasma, and Fate owes us these nights under the red, a vaseline-coated glow that softens our ugliness...
In these leather booths there exists a built-in reminder of mammalian death, of slaughter in the name of another's comfort: of institutional sadists who deal in headache and palm sweat; this is release from that, those automatic monsters of bureaucracy. As they say, "Don't let the bastards grind you down..."
I heard today, "Harsh words from such a pretty girl." Thank you for the reminder, because sometimes I forget, honestly. Sometimes I don't know which side of the mirror I'm living on. Sometimes I am inclined to believe that I am you:
I impose your attention span on my own language and can only write in abridged, insane bursts.
Forgive me this low inertia, if nothing else.
"Have you ever stared at a wall and grown conscious of your own immortality's slow disappearance?"
"Harsh words from such a..."
It's happening all the time. The planned obsolescence of humanity is unavoidable and, perhaps, the final thread connecting every last stalwart misanthrope to the social genome. Despite all indicators of superiority, there's a biological flaw engraved on the double helix: our own wasting.
Reflect on the apparatuses of death that we choose to hasten this process (pointed glance at the beer, the cigarette, the abundance of solitude encroaching upon my psyche, the 12 layers of irony I alternately apply and deconstruct in an effort to cope with these more-or-less aesthetic choices--but hey, I've chosen all of it)
--how few of us, proportionately-speaking, choose to permanently break their gaze with the bedroom wall.
The wall does not ask you what mutated Cognition could be born from such an intellectually bankrupt activity--but still, unfailingly, it forms.
The waking brain produces phantasms that compete with our buried ghosts; the perverted dynamics that only sleep could engineer. The Unconscious dictates the fantastic, while an unhinged Consciousness combines all the sickness of dreams with human logic. And it is the truly sick who stop having a preference, or even a choice, between the two.
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