I could see them on the street, puttering in these huge mental beasts... HONK HONK... one side ladies and gentlemen... step lively.
And there's that Laundromat on Dale. The building is far older than any memory which has been personally passed to me from lips which, when connected to eyes, conceived initially the aspects of their time. I wonder how many others have walked by it. I wonder whose hands built it. I wonder whose, if any, will tear it down.
It doesn't matter, as this is the matter of madmen, preferring to disparate themselves from themselves and idly wondering without interacting. It's just too tough these days.
I'm that guy, now, it seems. The one that will watch the accident but not help because he cannot be bothered to be emotionally involved. Because it's too close. Because it will haunt me enough just watching. Because I'm faultily wired. For years I tried to fix this, but, I suspect, that it is my defining characteristic.
I suspect, that without it, je ne suis rien. Then, I remember, that I am not anyway.. and that's comforting, in a way.
Regardless, my footsteps leave nothing, and it's a mixed bag.
Spider is half-right anyway:
"..and I remember saying, hold everything right fucking there. You went to all the trouble of conceiving me, and giving birth to me, and raising me and feeding me and clothing me and all-- and yeah, whipping me from time to time..."
"and what I've got to look forward to is my body breaking and something flipping off the switch in my head--"
"I was not having this, this was not fair."
"I was unthrilled to say the least."
This means, of course.. that he is also half-wrong.
It's that very nature that makes and breaks us all at once. Tearing into our own little made-up worlds and beating us down.
I would've thought by now I'd be over this... but, I fear, I have/will become one of those oddities people talk about... in a mixture of intrigue and laughter.. a flawed consistently falling boy. Like Van Gogh but without the genius.
Fuck it. Life's too short.
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