A deep nervousness set in this afternoon, perhaps, if only, as the reaction to caffeine, although I am doubtful that this would be the case. A deep plagiarism of the day without true work, only the attempt to paraphrase the wicked movements of the dead letter. To breathe life into time as the path through a resolute whiteness, unremarked with a layer of woolen stares. Lead, or the absence of the graph, is the catalyst for a deep gloomy viscosity: to hold together against a better technology of vision.
Haphazard lovers visit the city to escape the demise of the organ, of the hold that may delay the expression of saints, holy and shaved, who may believe in a true alchemy of earthly peace through the negation of senses and the transcendence of slow time. We drink, they say, the cured blood of order to hasten the conjugation of the transcendental verb; our infinitive of grace and absolute sorrow. Fucked. Something to numb the machinery of the body's pleasure and its abused patterns.
An education can help you feel good about your day. The television, and the novelist who copies its sentiments, is emboldened and trusted by the sheer volume of its persistence. The idea that it can continue indefinitely, and that it will not leave. Television is the maternal instrument of a social force greater than the phallic signifier of lack, or so belief would begin to frame a subjectivity capable of such doubts: the child.
Weird subjectivites, storms of misogynated decision, are the virtual manifold of a time we feel so personally. Our respect shall be something that insures the safe tendency of a future time capable, however the machine, of being a boredom worthy of stable comfort.
This decision, we feel, was made behind closed doors, and we--in the exercise of our democratic assembly--feel that we should have a say in this matter, if indeed the matter sustains the name of that which we have birthed.
There are no women, as such: only girlfriends who are asking other servers for the menu.
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