Nothing like this job to remind me how little of a fuck I give about average everyday shenanigans that other social humans seem to care about. How does it not interest me even one bit? I fascinate myself.
Sometimes I want to believe that all fiction we output in our dimension are reflections of actual existence in others. That spark we call inspiration is a sex pilus shot through warped spacetime to reach each individual creator. Dreams are another channel through which these reflections flow.
I need to sleep with the laptop less so I can dream more.
1 comment:
lol sex pilus.
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