la la

Just as one and one and one and one and one and one ad infinitum means a fucking mess, I make a fucking mess of everything, waking up because of having to wake up to then walk streets that go nowhere just to go nowhere and do nothing and write something and look for the simplest excuse to justify my anger. Anger of nothing, anger because of something as tediously insignificant as the trains running late and then hearing an idiot's voice saying he won't be coming to work because he has the flu. And then the feeling stays and then I look for something else to remain angry because there is nothing like feeling angry despite the fact that one knows the afternoon shall be better, but one still fears the afternoon won't be better and the spring shall come to an end soon. The spring says it may be going and it may be going because that is the way it is. Yet one closes one's eyes and clenches one's fists and bites one's lower lip and wishes the spring would not say it all along for next year there will be spring again and then the following year and then the following, and that there are sunny days too all year long and that they feel springy and that the sun shines upon it all and one can smile. I do not want the summer to come, for that is just another excuse for the spring to say she's gone, and that it all is as such because that is the way it is. I type and type and type and type and type and type ad infinitum to mitigate that fucking mess, while pop French songs pop out the earphone and caffeine and protein and hope for whatever the afternoon might be comes to be. There are messages which are to say the least not very encouraging since one is about to crack for any single given reason regardless of the actual importance of them reasons and one reads those messages the way they are not meant to be read. So I type and type and type and type and type and type ad infinitum and enlarge the mess inasmuch as the result goes to and fro from pure thought to pure feeling to pure nonsense to pure tantrum and back to thought and the prospective reader of this wonders why in heavens he is reading this since he could very well type something actually coherent. Yet me thinks the sole and single purpose of all this spaghetti of threads of words is to say something without in fact saying it cause only I know what these cheesy strings of lines are supposed to say without in fact saying it.

She reckons I am mad, I reckon I am mad, I am mad to reckon, and mad about reckoning, and mad because of reckoning, and madder for I reckon all this so with full contempt. I have got to live with myself, and sometimes I do not like myself, so I fear that if I share myself those to whom I share myself could bark enough and not run but quietly and comfortably walk away while looking back to think I look tinier with every step they take. I would then suffer not because they go as much as suffering because I suffer when them people do not do what I want them to do so I do what I do so they do what I want them to do and so on. I should not type and type and type and type and type and type and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk or even think and think and think and think and think and think ad infinitum of this because it all looks like a furious exercise of perverse alliteration and grammar. However, how perverse is it to encapsule one's ravage in clauses of any kind of sort?

This is no labyrinth...

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