Billowing Smoke

Though it’s years, I believe in justifying my hatred for folks.  I can also die, and it will be years since I lived.  The proof – proofs? – would be aging.  I don’t hate, almost everybody, and nothing personal, I don’t even have a crazy hatred – it’s good.  That is, if and only if yér a fucking pig is the fact of your death advantageous to my following.  Even then, in camera (candidly), I glorify the same exact icons as you.  John Wayne is dear to me, little John Wayne.  Next up: Little statues held by Paul Newman until you need to live the years, to follow the egos fed by jokes.

An ego has no substance.  I am mama in a tank.  I can acquire any ego.  That’s what?  Insubstantial.

You thought you were safe in your prison of bone with its memorials (to suicide) – naw.  Material stuff is elusive.  Words are the ticking of the contact – in reality.  Because, let’s face it: We are only talking amongst ourselves.


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