nothng is beyond reproach or suggestion, nothing is beyond repair apparently
we can fix this, we can fix everything, everything but the damaged bodies
it’s built upon. there is no way out, there is no end in sight, perpetual emotion machine
perpetual fault machine. precariously and vicariously, living another life through yourself
watching yourself living another you.
i’m sick, in robot mode, pure sinew and tendon
muscles beat, skin beat, head beat, heartbeat,
just a few hours more. maybe even the liquor, although of course
that would just be catastrophe (there’s nothing inherently wrong with the liquor
except for the fact that it literally speaks to me, it literally says, “aren’t i elegant?
am i not pretty?”)
and the little elf inside goes completely apeshit.
he cackles, “you’re the worm in the bottle goddammit.
you’re the goddamn worm.”