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I seem to have contracted a style, yet I’m not quite sure what that style is – except that it won’t let me write certain things on Facebook. I have contracted a name too it seems. And a face. And a body. And forty seven different flavors of who am I. I have a mother. I have a father. A sister. And a brother. Friends. Three dogs. A knife. A spoon. Dental Floss and a pair of fancy tight jeans. Is the world waiting for me to save it? What is this thing called World anyway and who was it told me it was false but that I should work like hell to save it? Purifying forty seven flavors of who am I. I’ve no idea what this means or even if it’s allowed on Facebook. Mother, sister, father, brother, friends, dogs – a small sharp knife with a bent point that refuses to fit in the slot. Did God come to tell me She is real? The world false? Did Buddha? It’s just an ordinary Wednesday night and I seem to have contracted a style – and a name – and a body – but when I look for the one who did, I can’t seem to find him anywhere. Yet here came all these words.Good night, my friends. Sleep. Sleep like you’ve never slept before.
