i've been out of touch. and not that i like touch, but i don't dislike touch either. yet again i find myself to be just a little person, a person in the sea, of many little people who are not aware of me. feels like these short summer days are just the right thing for eternal whining.
i cut the words "i will" three times already. not in the attempt to make a cyriakian like text, but more to stop making promises, even withering, wandering, meandering promises like the ones made on a surreal virtual space.
they welcomed me to the machine. and i wasnt listening to old records. they welcomed me with a banner saying you're 25. you look just like when you were 23, you live just like when you were 22, you feel just like when you're 21, but everyone expects from you all those things you've always thought you will escape. and now you've been welcomed, you know it, it's in your head, under your fingernails, on that white spot underneath your watch, behind your ear, in all the places you would never think of searching.
everything is exactly the same as it used to be, except for this societal pressure which turned out to be gas that fizzed into a big fart of righteous speeches and odd looks.
(surreal bovine coreography by cyriak)
Are you sure nothing's wrong?
But you're sad about something
So tell me what
I don't know
I can't tell you