Tyrell

Life is far too short and it seems that only by slowing everything right down is it possible to act fast enough to fit everything in, there is so much that needs to be done within our rolling fragment of time, as our generation approaches the apex of its crest of influence it seems that no matter how much I scream there is no escaping the tidal forces that sap at our souls and drag down our spirits, enforcing a deathly lethargic drive to ambition, there is no time to stop and stare, our minds never close down, locked permanently into a restless state of redeyed standby, and there seems no escape from this social networking static that plagues the mind, of course some prefer to eradicate their virtual fingerprint and go from acespace to nospace (hmph!), and I can sympathise completely, writing this post, with its tragically symbolic grammatical error is striping away my focus and causing pains behind the eyes, when do we get off, when do we get a break from this lighting fast sprint to our lonely ends, it seems too dangerous but to do anything other than face down our destinies for fear of missing a precious competitive second, Adam Smith’s invisible hand compels us to fear one another while religion and liquor prey on the inevitably catastrophic consequences and lead us astray into either bleak bigotry or desolate destruction, but rest assured I set out to set no example or even to excel in explanation, these miserably mistimed words are for my own tireless therapy, not for the casual consideration of a few joyless junkies led astray from the maze of mindless masturbation that retards the erection of man’s most urgent need for a Martin utopia to safeguard our sorry achievements and provide insurance against Christ’s insurrection into the realms of progressive rational inquiry, yet perhaps it is not Smith nor Abraham that constricts our corporeal existence but more the Darwinian designs pretty girls in rich lands attempt to curtail that sets us on this beautifully cheerless journey to extinction, today I believe is the calm centre of the commercial worlds annual consumer storm of ecocide that plunders our prospects and saddens the smiles of our misfortunate offspring, it is also the date given to celebrate a fictional narrative of criminal proportions, yet strangely it still seems a shame to publish this post, and the insult it represents to the English language, on a day such as this, so I beg of you to maintain your mirage of goodwill and refrain from judging my ceaselessly contrived drivel and take pleasure in a day that still sits among the three hundred and sixty five as a genuine break from the norm, so I bid you all, a rather enjoyable day of debauchery and my gift to you is a promise never to blog in such a manner again. Happy December 25th.