the end of the world will happen in iambic pentameter

I feel like I have achieved a higher level of consciousness today

I am yet to be certain of that.

I feel comfortable staring at my carpet and trying to understand it.

I am having trouble imagining the lives of people.

My mouth tastes like weak coffee.

In fact: I think my mouth could be said to contain the remnants of weak coffee

And therefore, my mouth contains weak coffee.

I pronounced remnants

My hands look unappealing. I think I should try to make them look better but I do not know how. I know for certain that they would look better in better light but that is not the sort of solution that I was thinking of. I do not understand how hand creams work. I do not know if hand creams would make my hands appear better to me.

I barely use my hands but they are not as soft as I would expect them to be.

When I think of this expectation, I think of a Frenchman, in the 17th century.

He has very soft hands and looks after them with a lot of time and care and wears gloves quite a lot.

Especially he wears gloves to play the piano.

The French revolution happened in the 18th century.

That may or may not be true.

It is the best guess I can make.

Another best guess I can make is that the earth orbits the sun and the moon orbits the earth and that the sun and the moon are not gods and mostly effect with their gravity and light.

Gravity is a force and light is energy. Force is mass multiplied by energy.

I don't think that necessarily means anything with regards to my life.



I am a remnant

Or maybe a tenement

Or my mind is a tenement

And I think people are slowly moving away from this tenement.

By people I mean my thoughts.

By my thoughts I mean my intelligence

By my intelligence I mean how many thoughts I have

By that I mean how often I think about thinking and when I think about thinking how comforted I am by that thinking.



All the socks I own are damp or dirty.

Sometimes words have better definitions than the way in which I have defined them.

And I am troubled that I write nonsense.





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pencil shavings on my carpet and jam in my hair by adam coates