Theory of a Friday without the 80%

Gimme the moutache, gimme the human race. This is fucking crap, some get the disease. This boots, I haven’t seen in years, I’ll wear them again soon. Which reminds me: Stupid tests, dig it all.

I hate it when this hapens, fuck’em all. I found it but it wasn’t like before. Edition of reality, this sucks, and listen to me: kids don’t need the monsters. I’ve seen it before: salute deliverance of the pregnant woman… she is the bringer of chaos, she bears the childer of mistake, and is father was an idiot; then, the liar of the dead people came into scene, fucked it all up. And for that, we all got to pay… it wasn’t our mistake, but we paid out of frienship.
Lot’s of paper, lot’s of it in my mind, I figured it all out long ago… but I need the perfect proof, a document. The scupultor will find in myself his own shame, I’ll burn him down. 12 stores of wisdom, and only 7 books about it.
Days are relative, time it is. My fingers on my skin, searching for sings of intelligence, nothing but fear, anger… intelligence is not in solid state… not in me… that’s why I’ll look over virtualia.
Fingernails recently cut, long hair, long beard… well cut. They won’t get in my way, I can ruin myself, but they won’t push me down, not anymore
– whatever, you wouldn’t get it anyway.

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