cracker did you actually believe that
craker did you akutally believe tat
caker id u aully beli t
c d u a b t
i was a number once. i was nothing more than an idea that my parents were and i was more than the world yet less than a pebble but never inbetween. i am always everything and nothing. i am god and i am satan. i must be both. i cannot be either. my life is this. my death is that. i say the same things. you do multiple different sayings. i must be who i was if who i was must be myself. i am beyond timeblind. 5 hours is forever and it is 5 minutes. god is dead but he can't be dead because i'm alive. nothing makes sense but it's better that way
it's always better that way
i'm gonna call my grandma. i think she's still alive. she might not be when i call. I wouldn't know until she picks up the phone. i always believe everything is dead when i haven't observed it long enough. my bird taught me that. we kept him alive for 23 years but only i saw his last moments when we all came back from a trip. i saw him close his eyes at the bottom of his cage and that was my bird. Death ate him. Death ate him whole. We buried him with a shoebox for a coffin. Cloud Nine. I can't even care about grim ironies. i loved that bird more than my own life and i prayed to god. to me, i guess. i am him. i should be him. if i'm not him than i don't know what i am. whether that's good or that's bad depends entirely on whether i'm right or i'm wrong and honestly i think i'm wrong in everything i do because i was born wrong. i was born with every single card in the deck rigged against me in none of the ways that should hypothetically matter. i fatigue too easily. a condition causes this. but i cannot disclose my shortcomings. i cannot. in a world where one is born to work weakness is the first indicator to discard and throw away. I am sub-optimal in every sense of the word and there thussum i live a trapped existance. Not quite stupid enough, not a slobbering idiot dog to where I can live under government subsides and my generous parents until i perish from my own stupidity, not quite smart enough to keep up with anyone who has the right to declare themselves normal, people who are more interesting and smart and funny and have their own lives where they are god and choose to do as they wish. i am not alone. i have friends. but they live inside a machine, a machine which gives demons a way to see without seeing and speak without speaking and these demons can go by a million names which all start and end with the intent to wound and there's good chance that these demons have come too close to me. i am this. i was you once. if you were me, that is. i'll lie to your face. it gets better. and i'll say the truth. it gets better. and i'll say it how it is. better from rock bottom is still a massive pile of shit that you can still clean up. i'll clean up eventually. i'll clean myself one day. but i'm not ready. i'm not ready to be myself because i am still not who i am. who am i am who i am who am i am who i am. are you ready to be me. it's easy to be me. you can be me in three easy steps. what? you don't want to be me? you're a smart kid. you'll go far! You'll touch the stars and promptly fry into a million small pieces, little Icarus. that is the life, right? to die in a glorious way that no one else will. you only die once. people will say otherwise but there is always a point where you stop existing and end up being a number. isn't it funny how i repeat myself even though there's no reason to indulge in redundancy? it's great to be redundant! you will always be redundant on principal. there is always a person on earth who surpasses you in every aspect of yourself. how am i confident i'm correct?
you're on smogoff, aren't you?
c d u a b t
c d u a b t
c d u a b t
can dark urges attract better tastes? can dangerous ukuleles atone bad times?
Can Datrix Use A Better Timeline?
Could Datrix Use A Broken Table
see. everything is words and nothing cares about words. do you like words. write them forever until the sun bleeds away. do you hate words. write them forever until the sun bleeds away. choice isn't real. choice is made by those who cannot truely choose. you were born to die to spread a hundred thousands wrong copies of yourself across the world in a machine that loves you as much as it bothers to know you as a name and not a number.
i'm done with being done with being done with being done with being done
i don't ever want to be done
i want everything to finish
the human condition is only ever a babelian climb to towards the understanding that what humanity wishes for is paradox; this with that, both column a and column b, choice without consquence, and life without death.
Take my wisdom or ramblings, call it both, and do both remembering and forgetting. shove a wrong copy of my words in your head to think about whenever you wish and do not wish. I control you to the extent you say I control you. After all.
C d u a b t.
C d u a b t.
C d u b t a
B u d c a t
C d u a b t
C d u a b
C d u a
C d u
C d
C
craker did you akutally believe tat
caker id u aully beli t
c d u a b t
i was a number once. i was nothing more than an idea that my parents were and i was more than the world yet less than a pebble but never inbetween. i am always everything and nothing. i am god and i am satan. i must be both. i cannot be either. my life is this. my death is that. i say the same things. you do multiple different sayings. i must be who i was if who i was must be myself. i am beyond timeblind. 5 hours is forever and it is 5 minutes. god is dead but he can't be dead because i'm alive. nothing makes sense but it's better that way
it's always better that way
i'm gonna call my grandma. i think she's still alive. she might not be when i call. I wouldn't know until she picks up the phone. i always believe everything is dead when i haven't observed it long enough. my bird taught me that. we kept him alive for 23 years but only i saw his last moments when we all came back from a trip. i saw him close his eyes at the bottom of his cage and that was my bird. Death ate him. Death ate him whole. We buried him with a shoebox for a coffin. Cloud Nine. I can't even care about grim ironies. i loved that bird more than my own life and i prayed to god. to me, i guess. i am him. i should be him. if i'm not him than i don't know what i am. whether that's good or that's bad depends entirely on whether i'm right or i'm wrong and honestly i think i'm wrong in everything i do because i was born wrong. i was born with every single card in the deck rigged against me in none of the ways that should hypothetically matter. i fatigue too easily. a condition causes this. but i cannot disclose my shortcomings. i cannot. in a world where one is born to work weakness is the first indicator to discard and throw away. I am sub-optimal in every sense of the word and there thussum i live a trapped existance. Not quite stupid enough, not a slobbering idiot dog to where I can live under government subsides and my generous parents until i perish from my own stupidity, not quite smart enough to keep up with anyone who has the right to declare themselves normal, people who are more interesting and smart and funny and have their own lives where they are god and choose to do as they wish. i am not alone. i have friends. but they live inside a machine, a machine which gives demons a way to see without seeing and speak without speaking and these demons can go by a million names which all start and end with the intent to wound and there's good chance that these demons have come too close to me. i am this. i was you once. if you were me, that is. i'll lie to your face. it gets better. and i'll say the truth. it gets better. and i'll say it how it is. better from rock bottom is still a massive pile of shit that you can still clean up. i'll clean up eventually. i'll clean myself one day. but i'm not ready. i'm not ready to be myself because i am still not who i am. who am i am who i am who am i am who i am. are you ready to be me. it's easy to be me. you can be me in three easy steps. what? you don't want to be me? you're a smart kid. you'll go far! You'll touch the stars and promptly fry into a million small pieces, little Icarus. that is the life, right? to die in a glorious way that no one else will. you only die once. people will say otherwise but there is always a point where you stop existing and end up being a number. isn't it funny how i repeat myself even though there's no reason to indulge in redundancy? it's great to be redundant! you will always be redundant on principal. there is always a person on earth who surpasses you in every aspect of yourself. how am i confident i'm correct?
you're on smogoff, aren't you?
c d u a b t
c d u a b t
c d u a b t
can dark urges attract better tastes? can dangerous ukuleles atone bad times?
Can Datrix Use A Better Timeline?
Could Datrix Use A Broken Table
see. everything is words and nothing cares about words. do you like words. write them forever until the sun bleeds away. do you hate words. write them forever until the sun bleeds away. choice isn't real. choice is made by those who cannot truely choose. you were born to die to spread a hundred thousands wrong copies of yourself across the world in a machine that loves you as much as it bothers to know you as a name and not a number.
i'm done with being done with being done with being done with being done
i don't ever want to be done
i want everything to finish
the human condition is only ever a babelian climb to towards the understanding that what humanity wishes for is paradox; this with that, both column a and column b, choice without consquence, and life without death.
Take my wisdom or ramblings, call it both, and do both remembering and forgetting. shove a wrong copy of my words in your head to think about whenever you wish and do not wish. I control you to the extent you say I control you. After all.
C d u a b t.
C d u a b t.
C d u b t a
B u d c a t
C d u a b t
C d u a b
C d u a
C d u
C d
C
