Twenty-three candidates crowd the playing field today. Twenty-three... like the nameless rage which for years cleared the courts for showmanship and bat cracking and now primary ballot dropping. It's time to get an objective and we haven't months to spare. Rhetoricians may have overtaken Berkeley's commencement exercises, but rhetoricians will never assume Capitol Hill Kingship. See, the former had substance.
Tomorrow is t + 1 month. My world's grown infinitely more acronymized and I swore this defied the possible. Your United E-Fares email includes the most recent list of discount domestic fares! O'Hare and Laguardia and BWI are so far away -- they are the distance of all cars floundering in Sao Paulo traffic, stacked back to back in a line to reach into the dorms of Columbia University with the grasping power of Inspector Gadget's Claw, retracting and peacefully setting you down onto tropical soils with frangipani-laced ears. shhh, everything soon becomes clean and the sand washes away the.. the... dirt.
Today is t + 1 month - 1 and a descent into pitiful games of name-dropping and skirt-twirling to demonstrate we've really made it now. Now there's no time for personal pursuits, no time for development - no time to even consider how it feels when the soul is dissolved and you melt slowly into your leather-backed chair thinking how great it is to be no one at all, but this creature, this odd fuckup of synaptic impulses that magically came together in some mysterious event that's really no more curious than the 300 million receptors in Mr. Snail's nerve center -- he happily downs the beer in your MIT examining room.
There's blood that drips steadily from the ceiling, but no one lives upstairs. They moved a long time ago and you remember this keenly because they stole the furniture you wanted for yourself. If you could slime yourself up there past the crimson pool you'd forget you ever saw anything. Such is the trend when you're living for self-preservation.
My objectives are always up for revision. I think about that everytime I hand out a business card my money never purchased. My money doesn't purchase anything anymore. Definitely not a clean conscience about profit-driving or ODA. I still want to figure this out -- the analyticals weren't cut out for this world, never were. Not since they killed off Socrates and the rationality buried beside him.