untitled.

Layeruponlayerofcaricature
like
a
pretentious
and
endless crowd drwng me and grppng me
like unlife
I am horrified(petrifiedterrified
intensified)by the
emphasis which we put on dreams, as though we shackle ourselves to our
'id'. Don't
placate me;
I am my worthlessness.
myeverymotionisresistedbytheendlessrelentlessthoughtless tide of my ego
this is not a world which we create. In truth, we barely inhabit it. We are the minotaur to god's labyrinth.
We wander the deepest recesses of our pysche and (pretend:
that we rule these nooks and crannies, these secret places where our ghosts ?demons lurk.

I carve my name here as in a tree. It will grow up and grow old and I will grow out but it will always remain, like those few hours of night I pretend to sleep. Every word I speak echoes the sound of wheels on the road. I am not in control. I hear our (myyourhishersits) idiosyncrasies cry out in despair, petrified, astounded by our every-day pedagogy.

no god could have made this place. no man, either, no matter how fucked up.
It's just the earth dreaming of the day when we're gone. Everything is on her script.
Choice is an illusion.
I am an illusion.
I hope to god I don't wake up.