I dont like to ever go anywhere without bearing gifts, and the reason for my self imposed solitude is just that, when I feel like I have nothing to offer, there's nothing left in me to give
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I like the rough housing NOT because it is just some arbitrary, exchangeable metaphor for whatever real, "universal" intimicy is. I like it because it is too blunt to not be honest and simultaneously understood
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It is not an ideal solution however since I am at heart a drunken monkey
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To put it another way, I'd rather be cold and clear than be warm and completely muddied, because I can take no more of stewing in the primordial soup of social relations, my meat and skin have all boiled off and now I'm just a set of bones
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I often say to myself that everything is dead and all hope is lost. It's a bad habit, an intrusive recurring thought that I have to articulate to expel. I think it's more precise, apropos the soup, to say that everything has not yet been born and I can't stand the potential
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Maybe undeath was this all along? The decomposed ghoul, the zombie, the vampire, the liche. Terrible not for their failure to die, but for their failure to be alive. Primordial soup.
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Like how it's just instinctually unsatisfying when scientists talk about "microscopic" alien lifeforms, bacteria and the like. Something in ones heart must protest: No, that is a categorical error. Such things are not life!
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End of conversation
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