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subdividing delicacies, wormtongued wraith Don't be swayed
...artifacts
...used to think apples hid wasps between choices. But now I know wasps hide apples in our bellies. To feed their children after we die. To those who wrote "No Hope" on your cave walls and curled up s-so pitifully even after all these years, "Such a precious pile of dust," they'll say, practically fainting, doffing hats and clicking heels together in Civilized Clap- to those liars? Hah! You hoped that someone would read. And here we are, worse than absent! Ambivalent! Another grave miscalculation in Purpose. We care about history as much as we suspect it can change the future and not a jot more. One might ask if time travelers should know that, but no, the rule is true(especially true!?) even when we know it's true. We are subtler than ourselves.
Imagine that miracles do happen- in the sense of seemingly impossible things spontaneously possibilating- but a-always Strange and amoral. Mailboxes in overalls. Everyone in the world at this instant who is pressing the "e" key turns in to a cactus. The sky turns red for one minute each Tuesday. Isn't it easier to believe the world is purposefully deceiving you than to accept that you're incorrect about simply everything? Everything important, or sacred, or real? A mind so afflicted could be forgiven its slow dissolve, regardless of whether it zigs, whether it zags.
Understanding as some drab and formal ecstasy? Please. Some of the most puerile revelations are the most fundamental- a-and this doesn't make Great Philosophers! It makes the World a rude distant relative with poor hygiene and a sadistic sense of humor who won't ever leave you alone until you die.
But, hey now, it's not all bad. Chin up there, kiddo. You'll forget all this and stumble through just fine, like an invincible lamb in a pile of wolves- Look, he thinks he's playing, having a lark, what a sport! What a jolly delusional scamp! Rousing music. Credits.
Title
...artifacts
...used to think apples hid wasps between choices. But now I know wasps hide apples in our bellies. To feed their children after we die. To those who wrote "No Hope" on your cave walls and curled up s-so pitifully even after all these years, "Such a precious pile of dust," they'll say, practically fainting, doffing hats and clicking heels together in Civilized Clap- to those liars? Hah! You hoped that someone would read. And here we are, worse than absent! Ambivalent! Another grave miscalculation in Purpose. We care about history as much as we suspect it can change the future and not a jot more. One might ask if time travelers should know that, but no, the rule is true(especially true!?) even when we know it's true. We are subtler than ourselves.
Imagine that miracles do happen- in the sense of seemingly impossible things spontaneously possibilating- but a-always Strange and amoral. Mailboxes in overalls. Everyone in the world at this instant who is pressing the "e" key turns in to a cactus. The sky turns red for one minute each Tuesday. Isn't it easier to believe the world is purposefully deceiving you than to accept that you're incorrect about simply everything? Everything important, or sacred, or real? A mind so afflicted could be forgiven its slow dissolve, regardless of whether it zigs, whether it zags.
Understanding as some drab and formal ecstasy? Please. Some of the most puerile revelations are the most fundamental- a-and this doesn't make Great Philosophers! It makes the World a rude distant relative with poor hygiene and a sadistic sense of humor who won't ever leave you alone until you die.
But, hey now, it's not all bad. Chin up there, kiddo. You'll forget all this and stumble through just fine, like an invincible lamb in a pile of wolves- Look, he thinks he's playing, having a lark, what a sport! What a jolly delusional scamp! Rousing music. Credits.
Title