You
should change it for the replay, before the replay, as the replay is exactly
happening. You should turn yourself in inward and comply with the rules you’ve
always set yourself like a good little pawn in a bad long city that won’t stop
being either of its two popular adjectives. There’s only so much that the
public conscious can handle without popping pills like a hayseed receptacle. It’s
a mystery how this life form got away with it for so long, how it survives the
initial freezing period by cocooning its bony horror skeleton in the paper of
lowly love affairs. The harp keeps playing whenever I scan and I can barely get
beneath the tissue, no more than an inch. This is what happens when this is
what happens.
A
new body at last! A fragrance unto my own, a solo hit for the jackpot sons of
my jackpot siblings and their blobby bellies and battering of the space-time
continuum. They don’t deserve such pretty instruments. I don’t deserve to pass
judgement anymore, so I shan’t.
Instead
I will recite the code of ethics as recognised by the Natural Bad Taste in the
Mouth After Yoghurt Movie Society: mankind lives with its hands in its pockets,
clutching the rose petals of some black forlorn trader who only ever sells what
he cannot hope to use to reclaim his own existential worth. Mankind does what
it can with these ingredients but the stack of videogames just rises against
them and frowns them down into the pavement slabs with the force of eighty egg
shells on a summer’s day. The taste of sweet yoghurt is a far cry from the
honesty that such souls expect and will ever attain so mourning is all that can
be left over to do the right thing by, to say a few hindered words into a yank
microphone. To include the football scores is fine but to forgive them is
divine. The curtains are net and the classics are far too nostalgic to ever get
it right but mankind will not be happy unless life is just so, the light above
their head is at a standard, regulated heat and intensity without any
repercussions pausing on the backs of their prickly necks. If you are alien do
not fear them, they play with swords in the night of their languorous sport,
they do not know any better and should really just be left alone without you
making any sort of mark for them to identify you with. You must turn around and
eradicate your shadow before it speaks too loudly. It will utter a sound and
sound is enough to raise the hairs on the backs of those fateful necks of your
fatuous hosts.
We
aren’t as bad as that though. We are more just fat, we have too much worth
around the girth to be forgotten about without the aid of incomprehensible
statues. That’s why we build them, to feel alive with the links.
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