Hello. I've wanted to talk, just a bit. Let me start out by vomiting some literary post modern expressionism, because that's absolutely daft.

A fragrance like coupled birds and forming rust began its descent from the whirling grey skies that murmured above. Slowly at first, an unnamable dietty began to weep, but then very suddenly: a clap between loud hands and a writhing of furious light came thrashing and lunging towards the Earth. Rain grappled at the cement, attempting to reach soil in a rush to kiss the planet's core, draping and withering and looping beneath, over, hither to- down- past at the skins of people that raced the surface. New York City never before displeased me to this vigorous intensity.

I don't think I have a name, I've realized.

On a completely irrelevant note: rhetoricals do not exist. For example, in the case of a rhetorical question; it is an excuse to debase and to cognitively destroy any vectors of return, any notion of recognition, which is the very driving point of all intelligence and ascension of scientific evolution. If a man does not expect an answer from another after having finished a question, he names it a 'rhetorical question', though since he does not afore contemplate the possibility of an answer, it does not seem likely that what he had wound up producing could be a question, regardless of whether or not a question mark would be recorded in the structural sentence as a result of vocal annunciation or accent. Furthermore, a rhetorical statement is exactly similar to this, except expressed on paper without a query mark, which actually symbolizes nothing to me, though that's personal and my beliefs are not professionally allowed to intervene with the item at hand: rhetorical analysis, the last concept I must pulverize, is defined by means to persuade, to embark, to constitute, not to refute, to use evidence to pressure something, not to use evidence to think about something which is, by truth, what analysis means, or at least in my knowledgeable experience and comprehension. Following the myth of rhetoricals is like labelling a few simple items with a neater-sounding name with means to sociologically simplify and make more lesser-mindedly accessible; at hand, if you will- for stupid people-

- and that people begin categorizing things, butchering things, deflating stomachs and drilling acids and plastering over looks and thoughts and senses, defeating molds, ruining individuality and defining and deceiving society, bodies on screens, putting masses into jars, plunging out the classic, the truth, the nasty buggers the feeble simply cannot conceive- pump out and fish out and thrust out forever questions without answers, faces without masks, tongues lapping, rotted, desperately at their own lips to contain a repetitive comfort; living lives without colour to paint over screens, walls, floors and teeth; selling their damned preserves off on brick streets, croaking in heat, growing rich and fat, losing sleep, and trying to make a lot of sense and a lot of ability out of a hunk of rock and dust floating about a mass of humdrum space as time forever knocks itself on by, relativity, light and physical theories; grinning and gay, praising stone- philosophers going mad, scientists gray in the head, humanities and arts and mathematics being handed their own noose by a craze of laughing puppets, gagging and gibbering about off of twine, and to think they're systematics behind it all?

What tomfoolery.

Systematics do not exist, either. And to get it straight, between you and me, Hello, neither does neuroplasticity, physiology, shit. Ethics are iffy, too. Consciousness does not have a good rap, or at least not to me, and in fact has fallen between my fingers at this point. Alike reality. Existence is a whole bunch of toilsome sorcery, and universal law isn't really my cup of tea, either. Damn theoretical physicists, thinking they can pin down such a void. Dreams and courage do not exist, neither does any cause-effect loony and petty fantasy-esque emotions and actions. Love does not exist. Society is completely damned. I'm not all here, either.

I don't believe in God, I don't believe in anything. I welter between waves of meeting standards to turbulence of absolute madness. As much as belched poetry this sounds, I consider myself a ghost. A legless, bloodless soul wandering alone and blindly through a maze of histories and philosophies. Gouged my eyes, knocked my ears, lost my body.

How life amuses me, especially. Thank you, Hello, for listening to that moral bunches. (Morals are wrong, too)

Some lighter event:

I've been to the most neat coffee shoppe. Tinni's Tasty Coffee Shoppe. Two and a half blocks from my apartment building. I don't memorize street names, by the way. Places just appear, in-between lines of gray and white. Easy enough.

People are horrifying. Sometimes I think I shouldn't have been born one, as it's so difficult to have to communicate with the things. Especially at Tinni's, where humanity particularily scares me, but I've been working well to not let the appearance of bearded visitors from Portland (wielding flannel, flashing sandals and wire-rimmed glasses painted orange and bright pink, armed in both hands with cello bags filled up with candies, quarters, and foil-blanketed portions of cocaine, LSD, heroin, and marijuana) convince me that the beverages they serve at Tinni's is at all distasteful, since it is very much the opposite. Carbohydrates, High Fructose Corn Syrup, and mass quantities of Sugars are my only friends. But they're a pain in the ass.

That, and my best friend from Idaho, but he's also a pain in the ass.

I don't think he has a name, either, I've comprehended.

Hello?

What's a name?