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2
At this moment, this precise moment, Allen Orkin wants to
die. Reaching forward lurching his entire body towards the toilet, he spews
vomit in and around his primary target. Allen pukes until there is nothing left
to heave out from his shivering body. He stomach feels like a dish rag wrung
dry. He holds his head in his red, sweaty hands, forcing his cracked lips shut,
pushing hot breath through his nostrils, in a futile attempt to prevent
oncoming hyperventilation.
Quivering
hands that were painfully hard to operate pulled a digital, remote-shaped
device from his pocket and press the big circle record button. Allen’s
exhausted voice bounced against the bathroom wall and pounded back through his
skull. His words came, unbelievably, very slowly and with delicate, deliberate
power.
“If there is no God, and Man is the world’s highest
consciousness, then what are we?”
Allen let his voice trail off for a long while before
taking his finger from the record button. Not a single person in the apartment
knew where to find him, nor heard the words that he very intentionally kept to
him and his tape recorder. However, when Allen Orkin began to laugh, it
reverberated through every room and hall with such madness that every pair of
tired ears heard it. This madness was bred from the environment, a greedy and
trigger-happy populace. He held onto no memory that wasn’t dense with
excitement and bustle, or rich and heated in passion. He was a blown fuse, too
stock full of emotion and intensity. He was a man betrayed daily by the excess
information jammed tight in his brain by his own senses. Allen Orkin had not
been a victim of the box. | | |
| 1
In the box, you can’t talk. If you
could, it wouldn’t matter. In the box it hardly feels like you can breath.
Words don’t matter, nothing matters. Everything is white, and feels the same to
the touch.
Shut up. Shut up, they’ll fucking hear you.
In the box, one has no thoughts. One cannot wander his or
her mind freely. There’s nowhere to go to be unseen, unheard, untouched by
whatever lie beyond the ten by ten white room. Just a box, filled to the brim
with things you can never do.
Don’t sing in your head, they’ll fucking hear you.
One would have dreams, vivid, lucid, streaming dreams. Then
one would awaken, and wish that one could sleep forever. They’d tie you to a
chair and whip you, until your mind turned to the same flawless white that
coated every wall you’ve ever seen.
In the box, you cannot think.
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I feel like I should say something on this wonderful of all
wonderful days. I feel obligated to give in my pittance, for it’s probably as
close to religion as I would ever get. When you see your friends again, old and
new it just feels good. You let yourself go, you let yourself act like a fool,
and you feel blissfully stupid. You see that these are the times we’ll all
remember and talk about when everything is serious and we lose the fools in
ourselves. Eventually, though, I think you realize that this fool is what makes
you human. It’s what makes you great. So, in the name of friends, in the name
of love and peace, thrilling emotion and laughter that makes you happy to be
alive, spark it up and don’t stop. Let the good times roll, and wear your soul
where everyone can see it.
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| The long-ignored madmen with strange things to say Trudge out to the alleys with thoughts that they reap We disclaim the madness they moan in dismay But the day that they’re right is the day we all weep The papers announce that our time has run out We all lost our lives, though we still wished and prayed The madmen all cackled in one mighty shout A ghost of a crowd for a sullen parade We all raise our hands up to soothe the red sky And count with our fingers our every last breath The last thing that’s uttered before we all die A lunatic's laughter, an omen of death And Austen, I need a new Xanga song. | | |
| Hella random shit. Go. The Tale of Gary Late afternoon is when Gary doth rise Thou stretches his muscles and rubs his red eyes Looks at the mirror with sorrow, not surprise ….’cuz he’s ugly Thou smokes this grand fattie and smiles in relief His sad, twisted mind is absolved of all grief Thou hearest no lies, and follow no vile belief …and he’s studly Then Gary doth journey, alone in the night In a haze, thou doth revel in plunder in plight While all of the townspeople shiver in utter fright Gary shanks Thou sneak back to home as the moon starts to wean And sits there in silence, in the glow of the screen In the glorious, curvaceous shimmer and sheen Gary wanks And then thou doth limp to his comfortable bed Thou counts all the people that might soon be dead “Another fine day” thou shouts, to the voices in his head And thou rest When thou dreams, he sees visions of glistening seas And drunk elves leaning against trunks of large trees And valleys and plain of wild reefer, up to your knees Gary; The Legend, The Journeyman….the pest | | |
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