Next time think.

There’s construction going on inside.
Endless expansion.
Halfhearted release with mild guilt.
Modern guilt in a crumbling society based off nothing.
I have nothing to talk about.
I’m an empty vessel for creation.
I am a small fuck you.
I can’t do anything but sit around sometimes. My head is throbbing and I’m not quite sure what I want to do today. There is construction going on behind my room. It feels like they are going to break the walls down and climb into this small area that I call home. It doesn’t feel like home. Anyone can walk in at any second. I was taking a nap yesterday and one of my roommates walked into my room. I pretended I was napping. I drank too much last night. I got mad at someone for giving me advice. I don’t need advice from you. Stop yapping your fucking mouth. Shut the fuck up. You’ve been standing there for 15 minutes flapping your fucking lips around and you’re not saying anything. I’m not going to sit here like a chump and let you try to instill some wisdom into me. With your fucking fake act. You are the cancer of everything that’s wrong with society. You are a walking cancer trying to infest others with your words. You are a recording of everyone you’ve ever known. Thank you for the advice but I wasn’t listening. No one was. They are thinking about their own thoughts. I am tired. Leave me alone while I ponder my existence. Everything feels wrong. Everything is crumbling. I can’t stop and watch. We are all pretending. Why do people pretend so much. Why can’t we all be honest with each other. I don’t want to lie to your face but I do. I want you to understand that I don’t care. Your feelings mean nothing to me. All I can do is provide words. Ever. That’s it. Nothing else. Why is it so difficult sometimes to find a woman to love. Time floats in between these moments. You find out more about yourself than ever. You find out that you are nothing. That all you can do is yell and write words. Jump up and down and act like a complete idiot. It’s pointless to try to look for something. It always comes to you. I am a dog on a short leash. I’m too stupid to figure out how to escape. I can’t think properly. I wonder if things will ever be ok. I want o lay in the grass somewhere I’ve never been. I want to remember every small detail about you. But I can’t. There are just fragments lost in time that float around. Just like us. I can’t help but wonder if this is it. I know that more things will happen. But this moment is indifference. Why does time have to give us feeling. There’s all the people waiting. I can see them. Being online makes me feel less lonely. I can’t remember what I did before the Internet. I hate the Internet. I hate you. Sometimes. Sometimes. I want to take her from you. I want to ruin something beautiful. I want to come to terms with that. I want to come to terms with my insanity. I want to let it flow from me with ease. Filling up a glass without spilling all over the goddamn place. I know I will never be able to stop writing. But I can never write enough. Nothing I write goes anywhere. People will find all this and wonder what it all means. I am coming to terms with my reality. I can see the things I want and I am touching them. I have separated myself from the machine.