Who's not slipping away. I sure am along with everyone else. The rest of the universe is, so who's special. Strike that—who's not special.
At the center of the universe is nothing, pure nothing, and the way to survive in spite of it is to construct a layer to protect the mind from this inconceivable vacuum; this is most often humor. For the most part, though, the innermost universal anti-sanctum is unreachable anyhow by the human mind. Some creatures probably dwell there their entire lives without knowing it or anything. And again, a few men manage to slip through the cracks in the cosmic joke, see the face of God, and collapse in insanity, but I think they are closest to what we would call dead. A vacuum will devour what it is not shielded from.
I want paint of a new color to flow down my walls and envelop my previous thoughts in a blank slate (retroactivity would be nice). I want the Internet to erase itself and for chords to work backwards and Sharpies to retract ink and entropy to reverse and the Sun to dim and for polygons to become more perfect.
This person wishes he had someone to talk to. Also, he wishes he would not bungle the experience as he usually does with most conversations. It's like trying to drive a hypodermic needle into a sheet of metal.
And there's nowhere to put things, especially my list, which is under my desk and not looking at me presently.
At the center of the universe is nothing, pure nothing, and the way to survive in spite of it is to construct a layer to protect the mind from this inconceivable vacuum; this is most often humor. For the most part, though, the innermost universal anti-sanctum is unreachable anyhow by the human mind. Some creatures probably dwell there their entire lives without knowing it or anything. And again, a few men manage to slip through the cracks in the cosmic joke, see the face of God, and collapse in insanity, but I think they are closest to what we would call dead. A vacuum will devour what it is not shielded from.
I want paint of a new color to flow down my walls and envelop my previous thoughts in a blank slate (retroactivity would be nice). I want the Internet to erase itself and for chords to work backwards and Sharpies to retract ink and entropy to reverse and the Sun to dim and for polygons to become more perfect.
This person wishes he had someone to talk to. Also, he wishes he would not bungle the experience as he usually does with most conversations. It's like trying to drive a hypodermic needle into a sheet of metal.
And there's nowhere to put things, especially my list, which is under my desk and not looking at me presently.
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