Enter 6-0
At my age, I think too much. She said that I am too serious to be young. He said that I am too young to be serious. Otherwise, have I not been told that a stolen heart is better than a broken heart? Believe you me, it was first a golden heart before it turned into a rotten heart. Alright, don’t mind me saying anything. My inner voices tend to alternate like a deep Noh play. Don’t bother asking me about yesterday, cause I did nothing but contemplating on the relationship between Tahoma and Optima. A friend wants to make a box funny, I told him to go and make comic strips. Nobody has the answer to question number 6: Who killed my youth? Correction: Concealing is about making up. Do not conceal, but make up your bloody mind. On money, this I have to say: Buy something useless and/or cheap, because you will need it somehow, someday. We all could learn a trick or two from watching ants passing food, or dominoes falling, or baby girls playing with toys meant for boys. Counter-propose. Can you feel the question? Can you grasp the answer? There is indeed a plothole. Refer to diagram 3.2 in your Book Of Life. There is an acute arrhythmia. Check page 29. Correction: It is broken down into two tiers; not prongs, not sections, not parts. Why boxing? Why two by two? Why perpetuate? Why resort? Why consider the 800-pound gorilla? Why tend to hunger? For Personal Taste, press 3-5. For Good Thoughts, dial 8-8. For Dischords And Other Disquiets, enter 6-0. Don’t believe everything that you watched from CSI. Carry on with whatever you are doing, someone is watching you now. Whatever it is, just vote for the right candidate. But remember, righter doesn’t mean brighter. Want to be thin? – Sing Misia’s Everything, and you’ll lose 21.7 kilos of calories (source: urujapanews). This entry is going nowhere, and if you are still here, congratulations! You are officially my friend. Phrase. Erase. Rephrase. Erase. Pointers. Erase. Sequences. Erase. New lines. Not lovelines. Check your heartbeat – the methodic pounding – synchronizing unanimously with the beating of the canto electronic bullshits emerging behind the wall that you shared with your inconsiderate techno-bozo neighbour. After which she must become all present tense. After which he must have gone beyond limits. After which they went all out walla-walla, natter-natter, gromish-gromish on three but separate instances. Does Zaricort works? Correction: There’s an impartiality in the integrity. Steel drums, baby, steel drums! Do not blame the silencers. Do not poke fun at the noisemakers. Think: (A) What ticks? (B) French? (C) Ultra sleek? There can never be too many questions. Throw me a request but do so musically. Preferably Sondheim. Dictate the linear notes that came attached with your sleep and get H-E-L-P at once if you are suffering from Cotard delusion. Listen to the other. Listen to your mother. By the way, I came to realize too late that you are just a McGuffin to me. After which you must reveal them carefully, and when you hit the crossroads, take four steps backward and ask yourself this: Will Mahatma Gandhi be proud of your actions today?
60 episodes after, I'm vexed, aroused by the strange vox humana telling me to stop. Should I relent and end?