Buzzes and Clicks Pass for Language Amongst the Stars
2003-09-25 � 6:17 p.m.

I want. It seems all I can do — I am not a producer, a creator, an adder to. I exist to consume, to take into myself, to eat the fruits of others to sustain myself.

And so I want.

It's an unfulfillable hunger, and I want more, always.

The irony, the rub (until it's sore and raw), is that what I want more than anything else (now, right now, this very instant, ask me again tomorrow) is to STOP, to make, to create, to build and add and be the digested instead of the digester.

But I can't.

The closest I can come is the equivalent of whining — rants and diatribes and self-pitying moaning about how I wish, how I can't, how I try, how I fail...like rubbing a salve made of caustic chemicals into a wound: soothing for a moment before it begins to burn and blister; so it feels to vomit these word cancers into the world. They glisten in sacs of my own inadequecy, painful disgorged tumors of misshapen and misplaced impulse that are impossible to ignore and inculcate their own breed of loathing and self-hatred.

...

...

...

...

Currently Aurally Inducing: Thursday, Division St.
Selection of the Lyrical Vocabulary: "...all the hate that rises through the cracks in the pavement as the temperature falls..."

[ last ] [ next ]

�	Int4rw3b Personals

�	Gene Wolfe

�

Image Fix

�	Again, I Return. (Gonna have to knock this off...)

�	A Return of Sorts