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Tracing the long arc of hatred's orbit about love. Callused fingers, string grooves worn in across tips.
"Can you just stop being self referential for one minute please?"
She started the argument, but, I was there so more or less complicit? It didn't end well. Listen: It never does with me. I don't believe in anything, but, please, when you drop a brick on your own foot often enough you start to ask questions, put the pieces together. The smarter ones eventually realize that they probably shouldn't drop bricks on their feet. The wiser ones stop. The real ones like me? We're baffled, just plum weirded out by everything. Some become fascinated, disgusted, aloof. We know what we should do, reasonably, based on some metric like survival abstracted onto the map of modern desire. Succeeding.
"No."
But succeeding always seems suspect. Because we don't trust, anything, not the ground we walk on. Especially not the ground. Not trust in a personal sense, but in a fundamental one. It wasn't that I distrusted her motives. I wasn't even sure she could have motives, since, like me, she wasn't exactly a person.
"Ooh, so direct and to the point, so dourly analytical. Yes! Do the I'm pretending to be amused for my benefit thing, yeah. Great. Look, why don't you fuck off?"
I nodded and walked off. She sighed and-
The door shut.
"Can you just stop being self referential for one minute please?"
She started the argument, but, I was there so more or less complicit? It didn't end well. Listen: It never does with me. I don't believe in anything, but, please, when you drop a brick on your own foot often enough you start to ask questions, put the pieces together. The smarter ones eventually realize that they probably shouldn't drop bricks on their feet. The wiser ones stop. The real ones like me? We're baffled, just plum weirded out by everything. Some become fascinated, disgusted, aloof. We know what we should do, reasonably, based on some metric like survival abstracted onto the map of modern desire. Succeeding.
"No."
But succeeding always seems suspect. Because we don't trust, anything, not the ground we walk on. Especially not the ground. Not trust in a personal sense, but in a fundamental one. It wasn't that I distrusted her motives. I wasn't even sure she could have motives, since, like me, she wasn't exactly a person.
"Ooh, so direct and to the point, so dourly analytical. Yes! Do the I'm pretending to be amused for my benefit thing, yeah. Great. Look, why don't you fuck off?"
I nodded and walked off. She sighed and-
The door shut.