...

I get fucking weird sometimes!  Like really strange.  I pace the corridors of my loft looking back and forth as though the greatest minds in history are sitting about my apartment conversing with one another.  These voices are not in my head, they are in my living room.  I hear their thoughts and think how platitudinous they are, a pretentious little cunt I truly am.  Only in my own head though.  I swirl the contents of the glass that provides the final piece to the tetrahedron.  Sappy acoustic songs and a longing for a flame so far away and a lack of television provide the rest of the algorithm.  I sit on the 15^th of 27 steps and challenge the voice of every person that has ever lived, myself included.   I ponder and record.  The words dancing on my screen like a stripper at amateur night begging for Benjamins are the exact ones that smash themselves against the walls of my cognition.  I have so many words.  They won’t stop.  My life is being narrated by some stoic poet yet I have the mind of a child, incapable of truly understanding the gravity of the words he is using to describe my life, my interactions, my observations.  I’m just here listing while these smart men banter back and forth in my living room, spilling their wine on my couch.  It’s obnoxious, they never clean up after themselves.