and he looked at me like i was a fucking disease and slammed me against the concrete. the thud was all sinewave subbass. no form. shape. just movement through the whole body. shaking like the muffler on my car. and it was so white. blue. green. running like phantoms thorugh the city of the solid. bits and peaces dancing to the tune of the moon. laughter like a lynch mob, burning all it sees cause it ain't got no choice. cause choice is for the weak. the soft. the succuluent lindor balls of chocolate goodness that make you wonder why there's just not anything else like this. with the taste and the guilt and the fattening. (oh, and the fucking stretch marks) broken scales and dry coughs conspiring against you. agitation driving you in circles. typing bullshit to kill time. could be reading bioethics but that would be sensible. better to eat time with a great big nothing because then it doesn't seem like you've done fuck all and you can pretend its just gotten away like the last one. but there's plenty of fish in the sea of words. just pick them at random for a thousand years and you might just come up with the works of shakespeare... or tom clancy... or danielle steel. law of averages, apparently. but the law of averages doesn't take into account being below average. or above average. it considers the average is being average. 70% of drivers think they're better than average. dumbasses. i can't drive for shit, but at least i can admit it.

and no i'm not on drugs.