2

All human errors stem from impatience, a premature breaking off of a methodical approach, an ostensible pinning of an ostensible object.


allow me to go as far as to say that it (I) threatens to be hypocrisy.
unfortunately, I cannot judge myself.
the period of dissipation occurs slightly after (can only be after) a grim manifestation of my incompetence.
what else?
must I always be right?
and yet I pretend to be so.
there is a period of remorse.
just a period, then complacency, then forgery, and then just that breaking.
till I pretend all over again.

reverie,
there must be more ways to get to the underground.
I don't quite like mornings,
they don't come too quickly, see.
so why see? I should just write notes in hiding.
only too soon, will I feel that I am writing for myself.

Writing is,
the nasty desire to repay with spite the offence that my flesh has purely and simply inflicted me with;
too simple and pure an act that to repay with contempt would be to unsettle my former principles.
Values,
these are the former (and later) lies that shut the doors tight on the first awakening.
I should give up on the props.
(pen, keyboard...etc?)
They are a sort of fatal machines, perfumes and made from all the best of engineering diagrams.
Only to fail for simply being methodical.
I doubtlessly fail to surprise myself.
when all things run so smoothly, somewhere lurks the demon.
Therefore, I don't really believe myself.

there is a double naivety -
I can't deal with the external,
so I escape to the inside.
Only that the outside is the inside, or vice versa.
Or is it?
I can't quite make up my mind, hence my ignorance.
Then too often, I believe in a crystalline edifice, an atom and an eternal entity.
That way, I don't have to deal with the inside/outside.
It's just a belief.

I believe I lie.



therefore,
the end
won't come soon.
It has already begun.
and no method
no amount of patience
no form of performance
can capture that lonely sense I embody daily.