death lesson 14
"Censors tend to do what only psychotics do: they confuse reality with illusion." - David Cronenberg
It is all so much fire and brimstone "forgiveness." Kicking and screaming, out of your mother's belly. "hey kid, you know what you need? you need some of that 'forgiveness.'" Than holding you, he (your father). Punches you in the face, singeing nursery rhymes of "crying won't help you praying won't do you no good!" But it's the drums that are coming out of your mother. The driving beat of when the levee breaks and the baby thinks "oh boy. oh boy." Though cool thieves were they worthy of worship? Am I creative? "Is my name my own...well the point of this is, you know?" Drew is trying to explain the book
"well we're not interested, you know? It is of our opinion you should seek professional help" "I have been in therapy for five years. I think I am fine." "demented, delusional, drew. What about that trinity infatuation? juxtaposing unrelated things?" "you do know that demented and delusional drew kind of was lucky enough that you made his point for him?" "so now you are in the third person?" "you kind of made my point for me." "The whole purpose of entertainment is to be entertained...you have this flaw of building your foundations on uneven ground, iffy soil if you will. You decided you were a great writer; then you started writing." The executive of the creative fiction of the publishing house leans back in his shiny leather chair. Are they mourning of the regrets of a failed artist? "I mean I can't apologize for well, being alive, can I?" "I am not here to teach you how to write; I am not here to be your father, or, read any more of these disturbing tirades on gods sexuality. Do you even know how pathetic I think you are?"
The revelation of a failed artist and the mourning of a dying ambition, Fuck no, this is the ritual of a religion we in the business like to call, you're fucked. The living sacrifice you have become is the smell of shit under someone who is more attractive, shoe. The receding hairline, shaking hands doing there best not to tremble. This is what I amount too, a third-rate Samuel Becket character doing his damned best to document the cycle of thoughts of a one and a zero. Yes and no, that is what you get when you reduce it, a life that is. A series of moments where you say yes or no.
"none of this is real; I am writing this right now. Word by word everything you said was me. I made you say everything I wrote it, you do not exist." the man getting very irritated says "get out of my office. now, or I am calling security."
Back to the black hole, God has a full head of hair (so he is not me), smokes a blunt and running his fingers through an impressive beard and says "14, is a fairy tale parable about how life isn't fair. Innocent as it is creepy. It made me at several points say 'is this real'? And at another point revised my book and repented of making the human race. God gives this a final score of three out of ten."
It is all so much fire and brimstone "forgiveness." Kicking and screaming, out of your mother's belly. "hey kid, you know what you need? you need some of that 'forgiveness.'" Than holding you, he (your father). Punches you in the face, singeing nursery rhymes of "crying won't help you praying won't do you no good!" But it's the drums that are coming out of your mother. The driving beat of when the levee breaks and the baby thinks "oh boy. oh boy." Though cool thieves were they worthy of worship? Am I creative? "Is my name my own...well the point of this is, you know?" Drew is trying to explain the book
"well we're not interested, you know? It is of our opinion you should seek professional help" "I have been in therapy for five years. I think I am fine." "demented, delusional, drew. What about that trinity infatuation? juxtaposing unrelated things?" "you do know that demented and delusional drew kind of was lucky enough that you made his point for him?" "so now you are in the third person?" "you kind of made my point for me." "The whole purpose of entertainment is to be entertained...you have this flaw of building your foundations on uneven ground, iffy soil if you will. You decided you were a great writer; then you started writing." The executive of the creative fiction of the publishing house leans back in his shiny leather chair. Are they mourning of the regrets of a failed artist? "I mean I can't apologize for well, being alive, can I?" "I am not here to teach you how to write; I am not here to be your father, or, read any more of these disturbing tirades on gods sexuality. Do you even know how pathetic I think you are?"
The revelation of a failed artist and the mourning of a dying ambition, Fuck no, this is the ritual of a religion we in the business like to call, you're fucked. The living sacrifice you have become is the smell of shit under someone who is more attractive, shoe. The receding hairline, shaking hands doing there best not to tremble. This is what I amount too, a third-rate Samuel Becket character doing his damned best to document the cycle of thoughts of a one and a zero. Yes and no, that is what you get when you reduce it, a life that is. A series of moments where you say yes or no.
"none of this is real; I am writing this right now. Word by word everything you said was me. I made you say everything I wrote it, you do not exist." the man getting very irritated says "get out of my office. now, or I am calling security."
Back to the black hole, God has a full head of hair (so he is not me), smokes a blunt and running his fingers through an impressive beard and says "14, is a fairy tale parable about how life isn't fair. Innocent as it is creepy. It made me at several points say 'is this real'? And at another point revised my book and repented of making the human race. God gives this a final score of three out of ten."
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