eight ball

common courtesy, like common sense is not that common any more in this day and age of dying by inches and social media likes, of followers and following but going nowhere

instead of trying our best to be better people we try our best at trying to appear our best when that is smoke and mirrors and incremental lies, the new pastime

incidental falsehoods and finding the right angles to appear to be who we wish we were, when the simple act of being ourselves is lost in the haze, a sinking feeling of desperation

it isn’t enough to try and fail, send blame to others, covering up takes precedent over owning our lack of grace, of miscues and accidental honesty

i have failed so much in the last three months it is a wonder i have done anything right, spend so much time in course correction that the objective has been forgotten, best intentions a myth

another case of right place wrong time, wrong place right line, same bruises past fine, washed up and all grime, letter of the law and ubiquitous crime

assuming that prison is a resort, a bed and breakfast with conjugal visits and fresh chance at an old restart, bitter candies and apple flavored arsenic kisses good night

variable incremental weather patterns and thunderstorms of perpetual petulance, of bowing out gracefully and kicking and screaming to be let back in

my horoscope said something may or may not occur and it will be good or bad so i sit waiting for the fates to throw me a lifeline, conceptual magic eight ball, try again later

all signs point to no

all signs are illusionary byproducts of the chemicals in the food

all signs are misguided attempts to steer you towards a better future you

all signs are portents of doom

impending, unending and unyielding proclamations from the cloth of fate

if it is already written can we just skip the suffering and go right to the sweaty good stuff

all signs point to no

can we just retire the fables of older times

ask again later

is this reality or a computer construct


my google search history will one day be the stuff quantico uses to identify a threat to ones self

now when i shake the eight ball it always lands on an edge, or a blank slate, i looked it up and that means i am not here, ceased to be, a shell of regrets and misunderstandings

just blue liquid filled with bubbles from all the agitation, illegible portents of nothing to come

this is the sign i had been looking for, one that says to give up to the inevitable, stop writing, take a break from raging idiocy and illiterate love letters to an empty room

it was a good run, but fell short of the end goal, as indistinct as it always was, ever just out of reach, maybe the plastic novelty orb is right

enjoy the silence, i love you, sayonara

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