converstation eel

conversations reel around, revolve I mean, like those annoying doors nobody needs or likes.  These confuse idiots.  We discuss politics.  The polite tricks of fiendish, selfish, parasitic humanoids.  Homo sexus.  Homo parasiticus.  Stare into peoples’ eyes, talking about the dumbing down of education or pollution or some other banal, self righteous slurry words.  Occasionally make eye contact with someone and see right into something real and then it’s gone.  A momentary sight of clarity.  It’s always a stranger but not always a girl.  That’s the truth and it walked away again.

Drone persons project their fake, saccharin mood on you like cheap wall paper paste that’s gone off and doesn’t work.  The paper slides down, involved in a council estate ritual and slowly degrades as pages of a wood chip book. Emotional residue remains and goes hard.  Spend the rest of the day picking it off like a scab.  Pray for rain.  Pray for scars so you have a story to tell yourself of another you can cover in paste.

Eels are not disgusting but your culture informs you otherwise.  It has a lot to answer for.  Get excited about your ability to grow a baby inside your body, then pay a teenager to look after it.  Your job makes you feel more important and useful.  You are not an identification.

I’m doing a studying for a moment in the future.  I’m revising for a moment in the future where I will be happy.  Right now I need to be unhappy.  I need to push myself further into nothing to get something later.  Then I will have it all and the little people will make me coffee and I will buy things and enjoy this brief happening of decadence.

I will eat things that make me feel sleepy and sick.

Ideas on how to trick people into clicking on a thing.  Don’t ever say hashtag to me.

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Author: camelfox

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