"Your throw-up is beautiful"
So the verdict is in: artistic, poetic, clever, witty, well written, well educated, well read, disciplined, creative, articulate, emotive, imaginative, brilliant.
Trouble is, I never intended such results from public emission of inner trash. I was merely clearing the system, draining the lines, purging the depths of endless rubbish within, of muck long stored.
Yet, somehow, within the mystery of devotion or attraction or love and all of the above, purgation presents itself as poetry, as simple beauty, as complicated dedication.
From that perception, taken from that angle, examined from the aforementioned magnification of realistic perception - the outcome is quite disturbing.
But perhaps we can diagnose the disease as insanity, and then treat with the appropriate medications - medications which, eventually, after enough sequential doses given intravenusly for any period of time longer than one lifetime, will show statistically significant, scientifically sound results which any body may and will definitely use to impress his or her superiors to an astounding degree with.
In doing so, he or she will almost instantaneously have direct and solid grounds upon which to first found and finally conclude an arguement on - one which udoubably begun in a haze of confusion, continued with no basis whatsoever upon which to do so, and was - up until this very moment - believed to both never come to an end and never have sufficient claims upon which to form a remotely feasable one.
And yet, even now in the midst of concluding, the conclusion still is in question, the facts are still unfounded, the arguement still aurguably aimless, the words still only dislodging of long-lodged bits of unevaluated feedback given by people whose opinions we have always placed no value in. But still, those opinions surface, that refuse is evaluated, their logic is faced, the throw-up comes up.
And when it does, I can write nothing else.
Trouble is, I never intended such results from public emission of inner trash. I was merely clearing the system, draining the lines, purging the depths of endless rubbish within, of muck long stored.
Yet, somehow, within the mystery of devotion or attraction or love and all of the above, purgation presents itself as poetry, as simple beauty, as complicated dedication.
From that perception, taken from that angle, examined from the aforementioned magnification of realistic perception - the outcome is quite disturbing.
But perhaps we can diagnose the disease as insanity, and then treat with the appropriate medications - medications which, eventually, after enough sequential doses given intravenusly for any period of time longer than one lifetime, will show statistically significant, scientifically sound results which any body may and will definitely use to impress his or her superiors to an astounding degree with.
In doing so, he or she will almost instantaneously have direct and solid grounds upon which to first found and finally conclude an arguement on - one which udoubably begun in a haze of confusion, continued with no basis whatsoever upon which to do so, and was - up until this very moment - believed to both never come to an end and never have sufficient claims upon which to form a remotely feasable one.
And yet, even now in the midst of concluding, the conclusion still is in question, the facts are still unfounded, the arguement still aurguably aimless, the words still only dislodging of long-lodged bits of unevaluated feedback given by people whose opinions we have always placed no value in. But still, those opinions surface, that refuse is evaluated, their logic is faced, the throw-up comes up.
And when it does, I can write nothing else.
