Things tend to turn on needles, pins, and possibilities. The walls of the garden turn on quite a different sort of principle. It's not uncommon to be contradicted by laws of physics. Oh well Uncomomomomomomomom. Don't sweat it.
Argument #8: Clued into comfort
The ceiling was littered with miscellaneous concepts. I couldn't make heads or tails of the coin I had been flipping since dawn. I was told by the law of probability that it would land an equal number of times on each side, but as of yet, it had not landed on either. My neck was becoming cramped from spending so much time watching the silver coin turn in the air. My stomach was empty and my bladder was full. I was entranced.
I knew she was out there somewhere. That was enough to convince me to have another drink, another shot, another drag. No wonder I felt like shit. In theory, the more I made myself feel like shit the better I would feel. That is why I drank. To avoid the images that I knew would enter my mind when I closed my eyes.
The hinges of reality creaked as they slowly turned. Infinitesimal right angles composed a smoothly sloping arc of light. Out of my stereo John Lennon screamed Yer Blues. Outside the universe screamed because it thought no one was listening. I could hear it quite clearly, every nuance of the cry. It's voice cracked. Our little universe was growing up in front of our very eyes and we were too preoccupied to notice the growing pains of puberty. Just wait till the hairs started showing up where they didn't used to be. I was not looking forward to that conversation.
Argument #10: Fork in progress
While my compatriot was endlessly amused by playing words for fools, I was overcome by a modicum of guilt. Words had always been good to me, yet I constantly mistreated them without remorse and certainly without apology. I was unworthy of the title 'Master'. It's certainly odd when you realize for the first time that you've developed a sadomasochistic relationship with words. After all, they aren't quite as easily spanked as humans. Forbidden pleasures of the pulp. Words spill out like cum on the page, staining it in off colors, leaving it violated and quivering in the middle of the night. The longing to run my fingers on the pen, to shape the curves and loops of letters in sinuous black ink lines are like a dream.
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