so why am I bothering to write at all? What is the purpose of this exercise. Literary mastrubation. I like to read lines and curved shaped into the numbers of the alphabet. We do not just need a new language to express our love - we need a whole new alphabet song!
When ships sail on the sea they do not know if they are going. I do not know what I am doing and neither do you. We are both sitting here in front of our respective god boxes connected but alone enjoying the nihilism of data - endless data. We have turned our very fearful beings into managable numbers - everything is either 1 or zero and the multipliers are a google zeros.
What kind of life is this. Sitting by the wire radio and counting. On - off - off - on - morse code had more character.
There is something up there in the sky. A colour that we all can relate too. Also that we stare at when we are alone. We stare together at the same place while alone. Just like the blue screen of death maybe as the LCD/plasma/CRT monitor tells us to flicker at only 60Hz - not nearly the Giga range of the 'brains' behind it all. If my computer operates at 2GHz then am I being nuked? (with microwaves?)
Boo-hoo. Sick and blue. My brains are falling our from behind my eyes now. The sickness has spread. Some say it is a low cold. Others think of the sore teeth as a toothache. I just feel tired with a pounding in my head. I take comfort that the symptoms of this disease are synonymous with practically EVERYTHING> even a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day. Unless that clock is a computer clock.
I find some sanity in nonsense. That is why I like electronic music. The robot can pretend to breath in rhythem with me. wHoooo. Hummmm. Let me see: [blink, blink, blink]
regarding the retarding of the rectal rehabilitation: we were wary with who had the best pair of women underwater. Lest lesbians lactate, our purpose isn't kind. Kold showering of the lower scalp brings remedy to thine spelling impediments. I am a snob.
Bons for the bonnie. Blood fot the Small Wonder. The fairchild propheside underside the whale. Wherefor aren't thoust Hiromio? Lech!
There was never enough post options for me. I label this post a scooter vaction fall. We show all of the shortcuts to the press. Control with bold. Italiacians publish to save the draft more than the publish-post-save-now autosaver robots. We return to the list. Post.
Wary are we for the last time I spat on the heads of the infants I got in trouble with the teddy bear for naming my God: Mohammed. Lest ye forget to drop the poppy into the urinal: Opium dreams have yet to slow down british production. There is something wrong with me.
What kind of life is this. Sitting by the wire radio and counting. On - off - off - on - morse code had more character.
There is something up there in the sky. A colour that we all can relate too. Also that we stare at when we are alone. We stare together at the same place while alone. Just like the blue screen of death maybe as the LCD/plasma/CRT monitor tells us to flicker at only 60Hz - not nearly the Giga range of the 'brains' behind it all. If my computer operates at 2GHz then am I being nuked? (with microwaves?)
Boo-hoo. Sick and blue. My brains are falling our from behind my eyes now. The sickness has spread. Some say it is a low cold. Others think of the sore teeth as a toothache. I just feel tired with a pounding in my head. I take comfort that the symptoms of this disease are synonymous with practically EVERYTHING> even a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day. Unless that clock is a computer clock.
I find some sanity in nonsense. That is why I like electronic music. The robot can pretend to breath in rhythem with me. wHoooo. Hummmm. Let me see: [blink, blink, blink]
regarding the retarding of the rectal rehabilitation: we were wary with who had the best pair of women underwater. Lest lesbians lactate, our purpose isn't kind. Kold showering of the lower scalp brings remedy to thine spelling impediments. I am a snob.
Bons for the bonnie. Blood fot the Small Wonder. The fairchild propheside underside the whale. Wherefor aren't thoust Hiromio? Lech!
There was never enough post options for me. I label this post a scooter vaction fall. We show all of the shortcuts to the press. Control with bold. Italiacians publish to save the draft more than the publish-post-save-now autosaver robots. We return to the list. Post.
Wary are we for the last time I spat on the heads of the infants I got in trouble with the teddy bear for naming my God: Mohammed. Lest ye forget to drop the poppy into the urinal: Opium dreams have yet to slow down british production. There is something wrong with me.
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