talking about yourselves can be so dull
talking just talking creates a lull
talking not even anything real
talking just makes me feel *YAWN*
It's a torture to expunge these bitter thoughts. Life in a monoculture of drab greyness, rooms with white-washed walls crumbling bits onto the black couch while you were sitting on it. The equivocal position of balancing precariously on the borders of not reacting and jumping up and grabbing things by the throat and throttle it to the death. Apocryphal; but undisputably nerve-rendering.
Amazing how facetiousness can cause the exquisite sensation of feeling melting rivets driven into your mind. And amazing how a basic flaw: greed, could develop such a macrocosm of human reactions. But it is equally, if not more so, mind-boggling that we could render such mephitic thoughts into mere confabulation. With a quick wipe we smear on the same cosmetic smile we carry everyday, tirelessly, endlessly.
Its scary. I write on the nothingness, the very nothingess of utter hogwash. And perhaps, then, nothingess is all I desire.