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prose SnowflakeI drift now, sometimes quicker, for a while, often slower. I know where my end lies; I know I\'ll meet it soon.
Such a turbulant life I\'ve lived. Living only for the joy of others, but in this fall from (or to?) grace I realise that no matter how much joy to others I bring, when I have none myself, when life is too short, in the grand scale of the world.
I just feel I have so little control of my life, drifting along with the crowd for too long... and now I\'m powerless to anything other than inevitability.
In a world of spinning black and white; I\'ve lived. Though spinning, now, toward colour... blinding colour... and the final warmth of my demise. In my suspended illusion of isolation I contemplate with all the time left in my world. A realisation settles on me. The dizzying black and white prison that I have been enclosed within is my world, and as valid as any other. And though dazzling or confusing at times it offers a stability and relentless, unfailing companionship. What was
prose Impotencesyrus: grrr I used to be better than this... what\'s happened?
syrus: I just can\'t perform anymore
carol: thats not good...
carol: especially in my state at the moment
syrus: it\'s ok... I\'ll live... there are more important things in life...
syrus: being a lumberjack
syrus: I just can\'t seem to get it out anymore...
carol: oooh theres prism patterns all over the walls again
syrus: and I know everyone else knows... and they sneer at me behind my back
carol: aww im sure they dont!
syrus: fuck me it\'s nearly 2!
carol: we will prove them wrong by doing it in front of them
syrus: from a theif to a begger from a god to god save me
carol: at the bar
syrus: but I can\'t... I wont have my equipment
carol: well we can by some from the corner shop
carol: sure they wont be as high tech as your used to, but it does the job!
syrus: it\'s not about the technology... it\'s about the placement and speed
carol: well we will wo
poem Dancing on the CeilingDancing on the Ceiling
Most mornings I wake up with you there
sometimes I don\'t... but I don\'t miss you
Oh sure, you\'re beautiful
You deffinately keep me...
entertained... for hours
or at least till the sun goes down.
I could watch you for hours...
moving this way and that
the little relentless dance of yours
subtle, flowing movements
You always stop... though
for a time.
Then I get out of bed, stop gazing...
at the spot where you were
and promptly forget about you
till I\'m reminded some other morning
that you just happen to be there
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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