If this sense of disenfranchisement is going to the dominant tonality of all experience in life, then bring it on and don't be reticent about throwing more salt on the wound. I don't know how or why, but the past week has just been senselessly terrible enough to warrant this deadened solipsism therapeutic and feasible. There were some OK moments but these were studded sparsely and stingily in that dense, unleavened, and tedious cake of experience and forgetting. I hate February and I hate March and all the days in-between and all the days that lead up to them. I alarm myself with the cyanide bitterness of the scattered hours spent grieving in unsound delusions, wasting time like the bougainvilleas wasting their purple bracts in the moonlight, saying that these things take time and we will eventually learn to live in the moment. No one is truly articulate enough to be happy with the words he has, but until we find our ways to archive our feelings with clinical objectivity, the stars will continue to record the pathos embedded in our every movement and motion.
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