A Collection of Spectacles


i found something i wrote last week. 

i was really messed up (to the point that reality was bending and shifting, creating constant waves and motions) and i decided to make fun of myself. at least, i think that’s where my thoughts were headed. 

this is a satire on my boring meaningless life. ooh I forgot. but where is the meaning ? is it ever found?! these are a writer’s most poignant questions. 

I know where burrough’s mind was when he wrote naked lunch*. now I have an affinity with it. o loves the state of this drug.** 

* i mentioned the book only because i started re-reading it the day before. i made some allusion that wasn’t properly fleshed out but probably had something to do with the fact that he was on every sort of drug imaginable when he wrote it. 
** oh, how some substances can make the mind weave meaningless nothings! 

my friend was stricken with melancholy since september (a terrible sickness, really). recently, she fell in love, found a boy who fills her ears with late-night promises and gives her the distant prospect of maybe, possibly being wed. since then, she has been noticeably happier. 

out of everything that can be fathomed, (and that which remains to be thought of) i am sure that love is the only thing that can have such an impressive influence on an individual. Some devote their whole lives to the pursuit of material possessions and wealth, but five-star vacations eventually become old and tiresome if they’re always spent alone. 

i’ll revisit this later, but right now, i should go to sleep.


`Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I–I hardly know, sir, just at present– at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.’

`What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!’

`I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir’ said Alice, `because I’m not myself, you see.’

`I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar.

`I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied very politely, `for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.’

`It isn’t,’ said the Caterpillar.

`Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,’ said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis–you will some day, you know–and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?’

`Not a bit,’ said the Caterpillar.


maybe i’ll fall into a beautiful dream that will lift the seams that hold together what’s real and what’s not.

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