You're all full of shit. I am too. More so than you. This thing is never getting finished. It doesn't matter how fast I type. I'm done. Burnt out. My throat still hurts. My eyes sting. There's a pinch in my back, right between the shoulder blades. All I can think of is the stinging sensation in in the back of my mouth. Right beside the larynx. It feels like choking, like suffocation, like words that I'll never say.
Never could say, because I didn't have them. They didn't belong to me. They belonged to that imaginary future where the words did exist. To the one where my forehead doesn't burn and I don't feel hoarse from not shouting not words.
The real secret is that they weren't words. That's the folly of logicians - they think there's a path, a word, but really it boils down to an attitude. To your own conviction.
The burning is the feeling that your soul makes as it tries, desperately, to escape.
But it's pegged to the corkboard, that one there, just past your tonsils.
Say ah again? I couldn't quite see it.
Sometimes I think that my throat should be rosy and the words should exist and that they do exist for everyone that isn't me and then I remember those paintings at the bar in DUMBO that showed pictures of torment and a different sort of deviance and my questioning soul was put... to... rest.
This. This is nothing. It just flows. Out of the fingers and onto the carpet, the digital landscape, this blankness that is whiteness that is what I think that you think which ends up to be nothing but
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