Drugs. Told you fucking bitch.

I don’t know what to do. My moral brain is destroyed.

The system goes for that part of you first. To fund the church.

Then they go for… fuck if I know. Logic? Beauty?

Whatever. Death is inside out. Hurr durr.

I had to put down a phone number for my poetry editor in the listing plane. But turns it out, rectilinear txfm? …

The man whose skin is of a snake.

Snake head. lulw.

The train. The people. Decimated.

Well.

That’s how it goes I suppose.


Yes. I can commune-icate.

Well.

So I guess… that’s a skill.

They don’t ask for that on resumes. They just mean like can you discuss the problem but first the solution (defined for… what? oh right–sales).

Make that money, whores.

Make it.

Telepathy is a handicap. Voices are a curse.

I just…

Want.

Something.

What?

Whelp. Some people get paid for doing a bad job. Permanently. How nice.

And some pretend to steal or what the fuck pretend to be someone else and their job. Steal their life. That’s called identity theft and the companies that try to solve it are a fucking joke compared to how advanced the criminals are. Srs. Fucking die in contrast. Srs.

I guess she just mom runs away sometimes.

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