Of Homogeneity

Few inches separate me from the newspaper in which my future is inscribed. Some times, I just don't desire good news: those which conflict with better news, paradoxly. I very often think of it as contemporary luxury; to wish, all along, for the good, the better, and the best, even in the abundant presence of both the good and the better. That is ultimate greed. But what is man, other than a machine for wanting more? I am a man! (Attend carefully, that the use of the word man, in this context, is genderless.) This note is essentially necessary for the fact the inexorable flowed of fanatic feminism among both males and females has been intriguing me for quite a while. My ideas are ramifying my mind. I can't even think of each thought individually for more that 34 seconds. That is what makes me constantly deluded by my failing intelligence. I keep reminding myself about how brilliant I am, to the extent of forgetting the very mistake I insist on doing over and over again. 'Thoughtfully deluded,' might be a proper expression to describe my syndrome. Would you like to know more?

I started writing accidentally. And accidentally as well, I found this mixture of mental and physical activity rather peculiar. "Why?"? I'm not quite certain yet, for "peculiar" itself, as a word, mantra an instrument of thought is severely cracking my mind; the only tool whereby the whole cast of my consciousness' theater operates! You may know, oh clever reader, that your consciousness has been serving you cold meals since the time it came to work for you. "How is that?"?

Utterance is sacred. Such belief compels me to be disgusted from utilizing clichés. Imagine chewing the gum which was chewed by millions. Here comes the point. Many complain about my usage of scorpion-like words. I say, if you don't have the guts to stand before my venomous text, then I don't have the time to argue with you. At the end I don't write for your satisfaction; mine is what matter in the first place.