Brain devoid of jocular humor. Everything is ill.
And what do you become when you've become less and less interested in Life? Do you dissolve and donate your flesh to the countless little fishes schooling in the Sea? Your body makes nothing but future soil fertilizer. Rise and work, securing paltry money by complying with whichever societal norms your vicinity implies. Everyone brings a little something for your vessel of Dislike.
Unlike the majority of the Internet, I do not appreciate the pettiness of "fun" or "something funny". It's all grave and sour where I side. This mood is likely the cause of why I am far detached from the workings of the planet. The twenty-first century feels like every fragment of wrong. I crave for emotive intensity, the kind you get from reading those vindictive suicidal poets. But where? After you read all of them, to where do you turn? Which human, what form?
Must I reiterate for the five hundredth time that I'm looking for the one --- or is this cliche making me even more undesirable? If anyone should decide to write me, please write me in proper paragraphs to the inbox. Disjointed chats tire me so. I wish to speak to a male my age, say 38 to 42. One whose linguistic comprehension is literary enough to incite the frosted benumbed mind of an English teacher. One whose feral intentions seek the purpose of negativity.
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- 4 years ago
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