falling at the edges

tuesday, 22nd of march

again, they changed the schedule ahead of time, and yet they didn't tell until after the magazines and confectionary were disbursed, after the lyrics were decoded, after the chitchat and vaguely accusatory tone to innocuous remarks.
again, they were demonic, these crazed chrysallii of the 1970's, nurtured in a web of selective philosophy, and cartoon attention.
one little totem with his bleached jagged strip, had a knife pack. One for killing the beast, and a miniature for what? severing the eyeballs? the bleached jagged strip which refabricates even his follicles - how can i see him? how can i see more than a nothing? in his eyes i can see hate and disdain, and there does not seem, at this time, to be the possibility of a moment by which i can see how to see him. fuck that looks like wank.
how can i understand the disregard he reflects on me, when myself, i cannot see him and so, regard him?
again, they say, oh they are so shy
shy like ice
they say, they are so self aware
yes, like small blinkered creatures with underutilised spacial perception
they say, it is a problem for us. it is hard for us.
but i think they like it that way, because they are comfortable in their declamatory petulence, and because physical dominance is both arbitrary and authoritative, and that is their box.
and the yelling.
so, let me think of something nice to write.