The temptation to deny what you want more than anything is proof, in itself, of the plague of The Human Condition.
It’s only when interests are sparked, connections made, neural pathways through the circuiting wizardry staid
The Human Condition
We, I and you may claim it as a plague, but that’s just hearsay from
The Human Condition
This condition, a condition that affects us all as one, a social plague, a vast, corrupt temptative drive that peeks out from under a societal navel-gaze, forcing itself into the warm eternally heaving bosom of Mother Nature
Her wooden eye merely creaks into a hazed wink
I, you and we attempt to solve this with mindless coffee-table drivel, a scholastic purge from the bin-bag of the soul – equivocal of the nether regions in my, your and our view

Try to picture this freeform, its meaningless sycophantic poly-rhythmic chimes reverberating softly through chiding childhood binge periods of malnutritioned, narcoleptic actunes.
Novocaine for the soul indeed
And, picture this, the frenzied claw-hammer technique of a half dead leper
Striking a garish pose in front of a bathroom mirror
Is proof ever more needed than now?

I’m struck by these protean self-septaecemic epigrams, in the same way a butcher bird is drawn towards mutilation.
Who knows why he does it? Not even he has the faintest hint of resonance in his Slavic-headed flights of fanciful whimsy
We can learn from him, and we have.

Where does inspiration come from? It’s bred from the quest to quench desire to discover hitherto unknown regions of
The Human Condition

Novocaine indeed