Friday, 3 July 2015

a local idiot, for example the barman

When a local idiot, for example the barman, would talk down to me, implying that I was a bit dim, and some guy in a well-worn semi-dinner jacket would chime in charmingly from the bar stool next to mine, which would give me the inkling of a headache, the thought process began “hey, forget them” -- and it would whisper in my head, “these guys are non-guys. This whole conversation has no meaning. You're away from your life. Your brain is a sponge soaked full of substances. All the corridors are bendy slopes now. This isn't even technically actually happening”.
That extended to a million other things too, to the point that nothing was really happening at all any more, if you asked me.
Just fuzzy curves and blank space, where a life could be

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