I switch to the trade station that I know you control. Its barely perceptible at first, only an increased level of comfort and then I fully notice that the heat is on. My feet became warm before I hear a click and smell something. Now we have been friends for a long time. You have watched me closely from a distance through your sensors. I don’t appreciate your objectivity very much so I exaggerate my gestures. Delay is my passive weapon, shuffling through certain mundane turns.
The doctors of the psychedelic triage unit are attending to a patient: The patient is bristling with fear and sweat, hands clasped to kneecaps and jaw clenched. He seethes about the bitch folk and the doctor asks if the problem that he has in mind is sexual. The patient answers yes and the doctor, taking a moment to seem to consider says “It isn’t your fault that you were molested.” The patient with a grimace says “I wasn’t molested.”
The doctor is then seen hiding sweaty behind a glitzy curtain gestures toward the patient accusatively and complains to another doctor:”his masturbation scans are normal but he isn’t able to specify which feature of the pictures excite his nerves.
Living hallmarks chosen for the clarity of their symmetry, the relationship of minds and separation of bodies between observer and the heavenly bodies being observed an advertisement intervenes omnisciently. Certain ratios posed functionally interacting in highly uncanny positions wearing scant fashions. But it’s really her different face. And that sock.
A comedic anniversary passes without a laugh.
As a bastion of virtue and pulchritude it is her duty to withdraw her affections in light of this clear and critical violation until such blood tests and genital exams may vindicate her scrutiny. Yeah sure we remember your daddy. Loved to fold socks your dad did. Was a real artist about it. Painted them for a living too, didn’t he?
I go to the members section of the secret society and attempt to sign in. The password I bought doesn’t seem to work so I ask for a clue. Since the portal at the entrance can’t tell whether I’m a zombie or human it entitles me to guess a clue that a zombie couldn’t comprehend. The forces vying for leadership represent certain houses. This one in constructive decline represents a freshly painted victorian handed down through her mother’s side of the mob. She tends it with glaring conservatism, chasing the mind into behaving by hinting through color choice of underwear, the edge of fabric appearing in a commonly malfunctioning wardrobe telling of certain possibilities attainable through applied virtue and wait in time. The translation of judgement is through the repeal of charitable flirting where once it played flagrantly. I feel now that she is watching closely and accounting for even the keystrokes I delete before saving. She considers these a measure of my thoughts.
She regards the confusion or clarity of the complexion of my skin. I note that she wears a certain terrestrial constellation, and covers it with a chemtrail haze of makeup. But I can’t blame her the way that she blames me nowadays. She holds a tattered pair a denim booty coolers to the fluorescent lamps and to the crowd explains “well they’re necessary accessories when I’m on the farm…” Pornography passes in an invisible stream from the hallucination transmitter antennae to my super-book board. If I go outside and stand directly in the stream of airspace that the pornography must certainly pass through to get to the plasma screen is it entering my brain first, and can my cells somehow read that information? The nearness of attainment of observed ideals seems to indicate the effect manifested: soporific vs. cancerous. I see that pornography and then people seem lacking in my life. But by the slick insertion of a certain ugliness amongst the beauty I glimpse that you are still watching, interested. Where am I really, in terms of my dearest sentiment, in all of this?
And where are you? Is your liberal embrace a ruse?
A plague on the mind grows in the presence of lively machinery and idlers regarding the obelisk’s virtue in common and very highly condense to glory suggestively and gropingly at the soft bastion of the interface.
I see untended action creeping in at the periphery and I suddenly make no action to to contain it. I blue heat alights in my guts making me want to poop. But only distantly. I stare into fantasy and reality glares back. We blink. By the side of your face you keep turned I can see that I still matter.
