Whizz whizz, bang bang.
Don't forget to clean your gums, your guns.
You tried to feed yourself a cheap imitation of happiness, and what did you go and do?
You overdosed. You alienated yourself even further.
Your eyes started to melt as your body shook, shook, shook, and it was dancing without you.
Your lips crusted over and fell off. You tried to piece them back together and speak, speak, speak, but what do words say? They say what we want them to say, what we choose to understand. Do words have their own passions, emotions, fears, loves, insecurities? Does "rabbit" love "formaldehyde"? Does it worry that it's inadequate? Does it have a gender, an agenda?

Do you, really?
What does it mean?

All your suppressed curiosities come leaking throuh, gushing forth, as the poor beavers stand by, watching the wasted destruction of all their efforts. I made my own dam once, out of toothpicks and old newspapers, and it was so ugly it repelled the flow of the river, and it headed to the sea in a different direction... I begged the river to carry me with it, to the mouth of the hungry sea, but I didn't have the money to go... So I just lie here on the river bank, waiting to sneak up on the current. You can't fool the water. Just like how you can't deceive the fire. The elements are above us. Do elements have emotions? Are they emotions, or merely symbols?

The Queen of Cups hands me a goblet of river water, and employs me as her servant girl.
I pin a number to my identity - piercing it, draining it, replacing it - and get to work.
Because they have the riches; their gold elevates them so far above the rest of us pathetic creatures. They deserve to order us around. We're not the same, are we?

But we are.

And. You do it too. The monkeys. You. The monkeys.

You're so hopeless.

I give up on you.

The thought of you poisons me to the point of nausea. I wish I could purge you, all of you, you disgust me, like the food I love and hate, I have to be rid of you so I can be clean.
Too much dirt, too many germs. Keep your debauchery to yourself.

And who am I to criticise? What right have I to judge?
I'm one of you, but I don't want to be. I want to paint myself differently, and burn the model. Dorian Gray style. Burn my skin, and sink into the 2nd dimension.

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