According to a few distinguished philosophers, I am nothing more than a continuation of related lingering memories interspersed with moments of nothingness; deadening it is, very depressing, although remarkably true.

I am no more significant than a grain of sand or a particle of dust—this I accept. I play no more an important role than a leaf on a branch or the synchronous revolutions of the sun, yet how pompous it seems to even liken my existence to that of a star, which I am surely not. 

A comfort to a fool; to give such weight to something as insignificant as self. For at any given time, when I find a reason or the need to dedicate moments to remembrance, all that I am or ever was appears to me in only that—mere moments. For I am only that: a moment. 

Foolish, to have life and to also think it is or is not worth living. To wake and find purpose, or not to find purpose. To wake and think myself larger than a star.

Comforts to a fool; to a fool I am a star and have always been one for as far back as I remember.

Thank You…Thank You…Thank You…Thank You (partially incoherent)…Thank You…Thank You…Thank You (scream)

…

Regardless, congratulations. 

I cannot take this pointless blabbering that never seems to end. It is a hilly slope, slippery, likewise studded with shale and draped in water. It is a place where one throws their dreams, like dimes, and hope for rain, like Indians. But I mean no offense to those indigenous to our lands, for these people I speak of are vile.

I grow tired of the lamenting and the singing of wanting things; of things, material things that are seemingly immaterial. It is maddening to me; sends me into fits of rage, silent rage. I will not air my thoughts for them to witness how truly criminal I can be, but I hope, just hope, that through some miraculous chain of events, that they see how I plead with them. It is in my eyes, my voice is stained with it, with the hate for this lasciviousness, this virile greed.

But—I do not disdain greed…

 I just grow, ever more each day, weary of the blind, and I am afraid that I cannot offer pity anymore. 

“You bitch”, black and blue,
thighs once pale as harvest moon.
Scum I am, to admire you.
For the beauty you are, sinful it seems,
to want to run my fingers along and between
your bodily seams.

See—men,
lust after you just as I do. Yet you are here, at my leisure—
a puppet on a string; my porcelain play thing.
Fragile, breakable and thin.
Wrapped in tie-dye sheets,
sweat soaked—
that sweet pseudo mix, unique;
smells like piss.

[Smirk]

The slut you are, my treat,
roped in linen sheets. Shameless,
or so I hope,
that your will breaks for me,
and all I’ll hear are soft whimpers of “fuck me”,
and errant pleas—as they grow silent,
one at a time,
one at a time.
And roll, yes, we roll,
legs spread wide, rise let rise that heaping tide.
Squeeze! Squeeze as I may.
My arms cannot steady your rhythmic sway.
The pillow cannot rid the air of what you say, but only distort…
like the silencer on a gun as it goes bang:

fug me arder,
and arder becomes carter,
and he becomes arthur, and soon you’ll
make me come,
to let me go.
Watch me go…
for these seeds I have sown.

The gray
Say the gray
No meeting of you and I
Of this game I grow tired
trying to make sense
Make sense of you in respect to
Me.

Two worlds apart it seems
It feels;
A great divide
gaping and wide
Between you, you, you
Not I.

A feeling so contrived
Far from benign.
It tears us to pieces
It brings me to tears
The gray
Say the gray
what brings you here now?
No place, no space
nowhere for you to stay

when you’re summoned for jury duty on your birthday?

-tribbianis:

a lollipop, a popcorn, a bottle of beer anything, the guy is dying

(via jeffcronenweths)

Thank you Mr. Freeman