"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> Techno Fatalism
By: Kevin Prostitute
I'm tired of turning; of turning the other cheek video games that burn fat it's exhausting not giving a fuck in the middle of the night I'm sick of looking the other way and not tripping an impostor, so that they land in their own shit, produced by overweight exfoliates

I believed in fate....... for awhile, I pictured it and swam in it, moonlight turns to sunlight nasty headaches and nausea in place of bathing in cleanliness, which is shit anyway ........not so sure about it now a mass of of people, on their backs, beneath an apple tree praying, wanting, desiring the rotten fruit that might fall into their mouths if they are chosen chosen by the law of the averages; the average American, the fearful creature ashamed of exposure shamed by self doubt haunted by indecisiveness an existence so opaque, only the vaguest of words could utter its lack of purpose for anything creative, intimate, sexual, deviant, or graceful festivals in the deserts replete with naked souls piercing porcelain skin with dirty needles and even shittier music 50,000 rats is not a major infestation 50,000 is the population of the average American town

Determinism holds my hand in a grip of death, it is determinism that I believe in I walk on top of the begging bodies and take the apple from the tree, so that I can coil... so that I can move on, somewhere, somehow to make sense of the rotting world around the fruits of the planet are rotting in the desert with suburbia's rejects waiting and waiting, not for the sun but another escape into the hatred of human flesh, the lifeless mind is so convenient you can watch all of this in the palm of your hand; hold tight; you're not loose the silent sound of the pause dotdotdot circulation not required