Ad Nauseam

Life trundles along at an unassuming and patently uninteresting pace. I can no longer see the point in hopes and dreams. Sounds emo, I know, but it's not despair. I don't feel like life will forever be shit. I just know it will never be great. I mean, sure I had hopes for a better lifestyle. better living situation. I had dreams, some very public, others incredibly private. so private, i've never even shared them with anyone I've known.

That particular one is the worst of the bunch. I swear, it's like an old war wound that still twinges at the sight of the battlefield. still... It, like all the others, must go. I cannot afford to stick my head in the clouds any longer than I already have. People change. Life speeds up, if only slowly. I will never achieve what I have in my head as true happiness.

and you know something, life, you asshole?

I don't even feel sad about it.

Matter of fact, I don't feel anything about it at all.

and on that note.

'pity this busy monster, manunkind' pity this busy monster, manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim (death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness --- electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange; lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish returns on its unself. A world of made is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence. We doctors know a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go E. E. Cummings