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Bewilderment is written on the disjointed face. Trying to make sense of shapeless drivel, he looks like a fool. Why he’s bothering anyway? It’s not like his life will be fulfilled if he carries on; what’s he going to prove by finishing the job? Hasn’t he failed enough already? This one isn’t for Einstein, it isn’t for the Europeans, not even for the Americans. So arrogant still, he insists he’s cracked the magic formula.
It’s about love says one fool, no it’s a cry for attention claims another brain: beaten. Perhaps it doesn’t have a meaning or a moral or even a purpose adds the genius. Why do words need to make sense of pointlessness anyway? Can’t I do a Picasso? Revolutionize words, turn books on their heads – make it the new modern art. But that wouldn’t fit, that would be an F on the report card – a slap in the face. The world keeps on moving, spinning, dancing, singing, laughing: changing. And yet this still has to make sense. It has to fit in the box, make sure it fits nice and snug now. Leave that to the arts they say, contain the beautiful language, make it neat and pretty. Don’t you think of doing anything exciting here now.
Where is everything heading the philosopher asks? Downwards. We’re not improving, this isn’t about to throw up some cliff hanger that’ll have you gripped or a twist that’ll have you slightly impressed. It’ll spin out of control, it’ll become more random, no-one will be able to understand it. You’ll all still try. And fail. Good luck I say to you, if you can make sense of this black hole, you’ve dug deeper than Houdini. Everything will plummet and die, I’ll tell you. Just watch what I do with this.
The fool is YOU. Surprised?
It’s about love says one fool, no it’s a cry for attention claims another brain: beaten. Perhaps it doesn’t have a meaning or a moral or even a purpose adds the genius. Why do words need to make sense of pointlessness anyway? Can’t I do a Picasso? Revolutionize words, turn books on their heads – make it the new modern art. But that wouldn’t fit, that would be an F on the report card – a slap in the face. The world keeps on moving, spinning, dancing, singing, laughing: changing. And yet this still has to make sense. It has to fit in the box, make sure it fits nice and snug now. Leave that to the arts they say, contain the beautiful language, make it neat and pretty. Don’t you think of doing anything exciting here now.
Where is everything heading the philosopher asks? Downwards. We’re not improving, this isn’t about to throw up some cliff hanger that’ll have you gripped or a twist that’ll have you slightly impressed. It’ll spin out of control, it’ll become more random, no-one will be able to understand it. You’ll all still try. And fail. Good luck I say to you, if you can make sense of this black hole, you’ve dug deeper than Houdini. Everything will plummet and die, I’ll tell you. Just watch what I do with this.
The fool is YOU. Surprised?
Quite interesting.
Did you write this Forest?
If you did, hit yourself across the rear cheeks with a metal pole.
If you did, hit yourself across the rear cheeks with a metal pole.
Forest Fan wrote:
> Surprised?
Almost...
> Surprised?
Almost...
Bewilderment is written on the disjointed face. Trying to make sense of shapeless drivel, he looks like a fool. Why he’s bothering anyway? It’s not like his life will be fulfilled if he carries on; what’s he going to prove by finishing the job? Hasn’t he failed enough already? This one isn’t for Einstein, it isn’t for the Europeans, not even for the Americans. So arrogant still, he insists he’s cracked the magic formula.
It’s about love says one fool, no it’s a cry for attention claims another brain: beaten. Perhaps it doesn’t have a meaning or a moral or even a purpose adds the genius. Why do words need to make sense of pointlessness anyway? Can’t I do a Picasso? Revolutionize words, turn books on their heads – make it the new modern art. But that wouldn’t fit, that would be an F on the report card – a slap in the face. The world keeps on moving, spinning, dancing, singing, laughing: changing. And yet this still has to make sense. It has to fit in the box, make sure it fits nice and snug now. Leave that to the arts they say, contain the beautiful language, make it neat and pretty. Don’t you think of doing anything exciting here now.
Where is everything heading the philosopher asks? Downwards. We’re not improving, this isn’t about to throw up some cliff hanger that’ll have you gripped or a twist that’ll have you slightly impressed. It’ll spin out of control, it’ll become more random, no-one will be able to understand it. You’ll all still try. And fail. Good luck I say to you, if you can make sense of this black hole, you’ve dug deeper than Houdini. Everything will plummet and die, I’ll tell you. Just watch what I do with this.
The fool is YOU. Surprised?
It’s about love says one fool, no it’s a cry for attention claims another brain: beaten. Perhaps it doesn’t have a meaning or a moral or even a purpose adds the genius. Why do words need to make sense of pointlessness anyway? Can’t I do a Picasso? Revolutionize words, turn books on their heads – make it the new modern art. But that wouldn’t fit, that would be an F on the report card – a slap in the face. The world keeps on moving, spinning, dancing, singing, laughing: changing. And yet this still has to make sense. It has to fit in the box, make sure it fits nice and snug now. Leave that to the arts they say, contain the beautiful language, make it neat and pretty. Don’t you think of doing anything exciting here now.
Where is everything heading the philosopher asks? Downwards. We’re not improving, this isn’t about to throw up some cliff hanger that’ll have you gripped or a twist that’ll have you slightly impressed. It’ll spin out of control, it’ll become more random, no-one will be able to understand it. You’ll all still try. And fail. Good luck I say to you, if you can make sense of this black hole, you’ve dug deeper than Houdini. Everything will plummet and die, I’ll tell you. Just watch what I do with this.
The fool is YOU. Surprised?