What's the point of people when they're all hypocrites and liars, freed from greed for who they could have been, but slaves to lave the now's desires?
Even if caught in a mistake, foibles foil their contrition. Disreputation's all that's at stake; there's no inherented polition.
Embrace the blemishes with revelry. Flawlessness is diss, aloud.
My hamartia's my haecceity. My humility keeps me proud.
I know why people drink alone.
But what good is a healthy mind if my intake's output's null, devoid of coupling of any kind, lack what I nary have to hold?
None-sided conservation peace; try to purge the nugatory, but this limbookshelf's contents only increase.
I've lost all reference points for story to judge life's book by its cover charge: the con that Meaning cedes to Pain.
Is righteousness akin to loneliness, or are losses justifiable prerequisites for gain?
I've walked a mile in most shoes...
I've walked a while in no shoes - it's no use.
I could watch every film noir there are, but only at the merci of some femme fatale.
I'd learn omni ad hominem for them, but latin itself non sufficit me et al.
But my, how people fascinate. What false futures they contrive!
Floss and eat, buckle your seat, vaccinate; they try so hard to stay alive.
Are there actuall people built like me? Can we con pair our mettle sum?
What do I even look like actually? What kind of thing have I become?