A short para on a sci-fi fiction I plan on writing

The skin is the longest organ of the body. It’s like a map. An atlas of hair, bumps, bruises, scars and indefinite cell divisions. My skin is a cage. An exclusion. It’s originality makes it uncertain. It’s genius makes its different. And variables are hard to count for. The heat outside feels like an oven. Others don’t feel it. I can’t stand near windows. But the glare teases me. It makes me know the fact of the world I live in. It’s nuclear. It’s volatile. And my skin can’t stand it.

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what is passion is but a lifelong hasty-patient behavioural experiment done by an apparatus both known and xeno-tied
in dull afternoons the quiet moaning of crows as they go about a life detailed with exceptional flaws and crafts strikes in me wonder. These birds do not need a typical beauty because their tone deafness is a good device in itself and their silk-fold feathers want for no peacock blind. They suffer not from body image. 

Suffering as a hobby is what many humans can do; they can make grandiose exhibitions of rabies and cat-licking wounds and woe cries. Look, I might be doing it myself. But hey it is a process to filtrate boredom. Boredom is like a null; it’s paradox at its worst, you are moving but not moving and certainly you pick out things that are a source of migraines.

I am not a hobbyist. Thus I have loads of boredom. They are so clingy like stalkers  that you feel they want your body and self. I wonder if my hobby is boredom for I know it well. Like skin spots they cling.

I sigh. I think I’ve said enough. But how was I doing so far? Sometimes this act of cluelessness is also a facet of boredom.

betrayed intros in chat 101

 

then there’s poignantly, awful melodrama
pinched by the tastelessness, the paranoid, the cut-throat awareness
shark-pebbles between toes and a creature shallow for the biting
my tongue wept but could not bleed proper
the taste of the iron is in a marble balloon hard to crack
like those eggs you see made of stone; you love them one day and feel like breaking them

I can see a cultural fissure; an individual tendon draped in wiggly syntax and edgy synapses that soon the hairs on my skin stand on end as blood is in full march; this taste-un-taste blood that speeds and slows with a navigation off root like a dentist drill in an amateur’s scale

I don’t understand.

My heart pounds.

I don’t understand.

And repeating it does nothing

You stupid, stupid! Can’t you see?! There’s always a difference between you and me…