I give most others the benefit of the doubt, you are wonderful you know so much how do you do it oh will I ever catch up, and the somethings I glance in hot pursuit seem to mock me, "Panting face jiggle cheek stomp stomp boy you aren't enough!"
I think it hurts, even though I laughpant it off.
They're right, through the telephone chain of ear to brain I hear to myself: I've always sought the easy way out, there is no way out, the answer, instead, to the way in, work work work; the question, why; the product, fuck, mostly lame!
See, though, I do strive for perfection, which makes me a lazy perfectionist, because I expect a lot from relatively little and end up quite angry with myself and enamored with the rest of the productive world. There are times… when my logic lines up with my intuition and for a brief moment I think in completed (!!! bad sign already) images, i.e. I fantasize about my place in the world. These moments are beautiful rare and absurd, even more rare as I become even more aware of my irresolvable ignorance, and the author inside me loses another hair, chips a tooth, stubs his toe on a toilet bowl.
Little absurd dictator inside me, hi, I give you full authority because you look funny and by the way you hobwalk I can tell your mind leaps and bounds, I'm a good shell, tug me by the ears and I'll comb my hair, I don't know a damned thing so let's work together like double-team-trouble, two crazy heads who never alone claim to fame can, subversively, absurdly, change the world
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