Aside

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.

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