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There�s a light spritzing of rain flirting with the concrete, dabbling with its mixture of oil and dirt and cigarette butts. I�m somewhere far away. Someone asked me today if I was �cheerier� since the days of the picture journal. I�m still perplexed. Things are very different now. Different from the person I was in high school, different from the person I was after high school, different from the person that moved to Philadelphia and especially from the person that returned from there. But cheerier, geez.. My leg is rattling under the desk; my brain is swirling in dizzy circles. Life looks too out of focus but super real at the same time. If I think too hard about how much I hate to be me, at the disgust of looking at myself and being physically available for others to see, if I think too much about how hopeless it all seems that I�ll ever come around, then I would solve that problem the best way I know how. Your humanity is testament to your existence. I think people forget that. All the rest is just worthless, vain shit without it. Whatever things you own or know,.. It takes a bit more than that for me to consider you a human being. I don�t accept the fact that just because you�re breathing, walking or talking as proof that you exist or are a supposed �human being�. I think this should lead you to deduce that I don�t see a population of several billion when I look around. I only see maybe a hundred plus whoever all lives in Papua New Guinea. I�m feeling generous and get a kick out of saying Papua New Guinea. I'm going to go and dork over here now... How to build a better machine. Kill kinder, indifference way. You�ll get your answer.
Later days Mr. Wreckedhead
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