So it comes to my attention that I, a confused person, have no idea what I may be doing at any given time and am lost in a perpendicular sphere of continuum into nothingness. In addition I most probably always speak in oxymorans and have no idea what I am saying at any given time of verbal intercourse. Facts are most likely an object of my fiction which is a frayed remainder of my illusion of reality. My basic existance elludes even the simplist forms of interdependence for which I may appear seemingly confident in conducting before you at a given time in the day or night. Although I am perfectly normal, I am unaware of what perfection is or any sense of normality in myself or my cohabitants on this earth plane or any other planes still residing on the earth or flying in realms above me or below me, of course relying on the latitude you are situated on at the point of time of you reading this typography. In time or of time? Are we of time or are we a continuum of it, as an infinite imprint in this milky way. That is not the question - it it? And besides I am intolerant to lactose. No not really that is not THE question apparently the question is to be or not to be. Suicide. O SHIT. Shakespear was suicidal and transfered his own need for understanding his futile existance into his characters weaving a portrayal of love and death and romance in which Twilight was nothing but a time in the day, not a competition between Ninjas and Pirates.
the girl with the chewy cigar.