I didn't write this, I can't write this, I'm not writing this, there is no one writing this. How does flexing a finger to tap-tap some pre-structured preset articulation based around a sudo philosophical art school rejected hipster trope seep out of me, it's bodily witness, now accuser, victim and I suppose, perpetrator.
What's to blame for the desire to brutalise words for the consumption of one man and his dog that doesnt exist due to said loner's inibility to physically own said dog because of a unhelpful possession of an extreme form of retardation, that and this whole scenario is set deep within the realm of utter fantasy. What, what am I writing? This obviously proves I have no soul, a stunted imagination and a distinct lack of understanding for disability.
Why, why what? why ask the whys, it's always why? Why are we like this, why did you leave me, why are we here, there or anywhere? Why is everyone insignificant to my own self existence, self-dislocation, lack of connection from a shared consciousness, an elaborate hokey hippie epiphoney that seemed like it should be true. It isn't, what isn't? I don't know, cells are communicating this, I am no more real than ultra violet is to a blind, brain-damaged fraggle, there I go again.
Perception? How whole can we be without our understanding of our whole. My brain hurts. The headaches, the hangovers, the comedowns, the comas, the strokes, the tumours, the cancers, the leftovers. The function, what point is the sustained function of self-preservation. Our brain ultimately wants to repair, wants to function, our machine wants to keep running regardless of reason.
The whims of it's memories prevail and our lack of control over it's innate programming, addictions, attractions, desires, hunger, aggression, angst, fear, and overall weird need to explore a jagged submerged crevis inside a partially collapsed mountain for 6 six hours in minus 20 just to see a cave, a cave that someone had already shown you the pictures of. These are our mothers and our fuckers. These are the real one's writing this but for what ends?
Proving to everyone this body can write at a slightly higher level than pre school.
Self deprivation / sympathy?
God I feel sorry he's so mal-adjusted, aw I'll say this is ok to make him feel better, he might be on the edge.
Illusion of interest / intelligence?
Doesn't he talk about things I don't think or give a rats arse about, he must read a lot of shitty books.
This actually makes him feel better? What kinds of disturbia haunt that skull, the freak.
Misplaced sense of self?
He wished he was that interesting, it reads like a transcript of a college project anyway. He can't face his ordinariness. He is his nightmares and everyone else's real perception of himself, constantly asking questions like a curious child with distinctly adult testicles and no excuse for such a vivid taste in socks.
Why am I even here reading every single word I'm now typing like some prattle addict, there isn't even a point to these words it's just garnering yet more attention from your life, like a time thief. If I keep you reading my time credits keep rising, if I write enough you'll be dead and I'll live forever.
I'll stop now, there is no point to continue as my brain has deemed this a fruitless act given the woeful lack of direction and endless self-loathing this deformed blurt now is. If a sentence or word has resonated, that was luck, though if that word was the word word, forget it.