It's taken a lot of respect to not judge those that don't deserve it, in part that the manied lost were released with more dignity and remembered with more respect than any independant thinker over the past year, or so, not much of much as dangerous as it was that being a zombie helps, possibly making the arrogant class some vampire analogy, while my own death was greatly exaggerated by their very selves on the daily. It was at some point to believe that on one side there's this great war with exegenisis thru the ratings system, and on the other that an opposition is tearing itself apart. It hasn't helped that the space-time continuum has an emulator when converting binary to trinary.
Not having the point of order to try writing anything, on the secret shadow society that is my, and coming to terms with it is terminally unique, without the need to confess my paltry and in-valid concerns over the tides of panic that obliterated the paper mountains of fiction at the first sign of the great manic-depression, every now and again, but that the climes of climbs of clamor from every copasetic alarmist, however well intentioned, treated the previous president like he kicked their puppy into their ice cream cake on date night. They lost their shit like a golden calf. While my inspiration has been to shave my head, not convenient after the mostly-peaceful previous summer of wroth, and the laze fare ambivalent cityheads begging for broken window economic bailouts, as memory serves the tinfoil man, had been pointed at me as they ran by with tv's to feel good about the tripe they teach in schools, while warning them that my witness and opinions with even this essay, would be a history, laffable, affable without contention in being a plot of the leaderless years.
While I do nothing, perhaps I've set a bad example changing the face of civilisation. My actions, or the would-be reactions, are too old or simple to understand why a stronger hand won't lead the orchestra. This off topic mosaic, it's my time away from writing that has hellped me obsess over the lesser shadows in my mind.
The delay or postponement now from the lack of concentration, dividing myself to add while the multiplication seems so little of sense. The precautions to chase their tails in traffic, the absurdity to protect the depths of discussion nay insane to project as town criers when actually village idiots, and the absurdity of the overeducated grifters is, off-the-charts, so letting it go and daydreaming about Barbie hasn't made much sense, and decided to try vape after quitting six-seven years to keep from writing posts. So that happened.
Inconsequential my tech piled in the closet couldn't discover some usable terminal for my talk of tale fluidly, needless to say but cathartic as a talking head on race day, laptop kaput, backup faulty, mini bricked, pi corrupted, tablet archaic, kindle arcane, but the phone runs a qwerty. It's really confusing and maybe this is opening up, IDK really know what the historians will say, except that I could've done more. The smoke and meditation makes for dreams and poetry, yet the memory of pattern is emotional, and the bad habits only serve the facade of impossibility, of hypothetical in auspicious self-delight and delighted illusions.
To type like monkey, to walk upright like a neanderthal, serves little else but typing now...oh, serves little else, and it's time to serve something more than myself by the realm of individuality that somehow has forgotten to live unscathed by the cold truths.
mjbanks@swehttamxam