new and based P

[Anonymous No.13509451]

“Too much time on the internet. I have no lofty love to sustain, no barrage of good intentions to bestow to anyone. This world rolls and gives rise to the most vile, horrendous enterprises. I’m tired. I fling my sore body into room-after-room, feeling no real change in atmosphere, no warm coddle of summer breeze, no refreshing burst of winter air, only all these inklings of life transposed into a fugue of despair to be played incessantly from broken speakers; the hiss of it all degrades my hearing, the shine of uncertainty blinds my vision. These screens offer nothing to me now. I’ve become a transhumanist slowly erecting markets for all my worldly senses. How much longer can I buy into my own undoing?
It’s painful to see these corridors dwindle, only allowing entrance to backways where denizens clamoring for another tourist to venture too far off the designated track, to wave them into sordid dens where smoke stains wallpaper and the pipes jostle as flushes from rooms above ring in odd time signatures, and they hear the muted voices of Johns bartering, the screeches of sickness within as their joints rattle, and tongues spew forth for another hit of a rapacious drug, and all the mottled necks of rope-burned horror that lie in wait for discovery.
What are we doing with our young? As if the amalgamates of sensory perception that lied to us far too long is the only thing that matters now. They’ve been pigeon-holed into a new arena; blood becomes nothing more than a joke, the decaying headlines that screamed once; maladies that tear apart souls become ephemeral statements to a cackle of meatheads, all becoming truly mathematic, to be taken down by marketing machines that inject resort destinations, videos of well-tanned metropolitans enjoying festivals, fake entrepreneurs, resale sneakers, new courses in schools out-of-town, the promise of new coital experiences, and even the sexy allure of elbow-patched blazers after the money’s been spent. There’s just no way we can feel this undeserving.”

[Anonymous No.13509481]

Thanks for sharing. Really good.

[Anonymous No.13509582]

>>13509481
Thanks :)

[Anonymous No.13510025]

>>13509451
doubt.

[Anonymous No.13510058]

>>13509451
Very good post

[Anonymous No.13510163]

>>13509451
its true :(

[Anonymous No.13510366]

>>13510058
hey thanks :)

>>13510163
big if true :(
quit life, acquire slack

[Anonymous No.13510398]

>>13509451
Source?

[Anonymous No.13510441]

>>13510398
,my diary desu

[Anonymous No.13511385]

I cri evertiem.

[Anonymous No.13511393]

>>13510366
..and you're into The Church of the Subgenius?! I found a new friend in a world full of Pinks.

[Anonymous No.13512111]

>>13511385
F

[Anonymous No.13513719]

>>13510366
quit internet, acquire life

[Anonymous No.13513735]

>>13509451
>It’s painful to see these corridors dwindle, only allowing entrance to backways where denizens clamoring for another tourist to venture too far off the designated track, to wave them into sordid dens where smoke stains wallpaper and the pipes jostle as flushes from rooms above ring in odd time signatures, and they hear the muted voices of Johns bartering, the screeches of sickness within as their joints rattle, and tongues spew forth for another hit of a rapacious drug, and all the mottled necks of rope-burned horror that lie in wait for discovery.

Pretty good Gravity's Rainbow era Pynchon impression. You've copied the right motifs.

[Anonymous No.13513743]

Pynchon did not write this shit