the corrider
for what it is worth, i am going headlong into the misdemeanour, suicide on the conveyor belt, fattening myself up for slaughter, oh wont you take me down to the slaughterhouse! if i had the balls i would have pot roasted myself on the way out the window when i was still looking lean. all the kantian sense of direction was sucked out of my time leaving only sein sein sein.
i go the way of the taurus.
it is a tradition, i am told.
backed by good economic rationalism i bet.