Profusion Be Damned

Eyes feeling decidedly unhealthy, I talked a Ben — well, the Ben, really — off a ledge. The fact that the ledge in question was nonexistent, and consequently unthreatening, seemingly makes this achievement defunct, but I still think there's a certain pleasure to be had in clearing up befuddlements, even if I'm accepting unduly. Sleep is for suckers.

But I wasn't ready to let the B go so soonly. He is, after all, the only character I've got, and even that never extends beyond the recollection inherent in the name. So I grabbed him, gruffly, by the woollies and asked of him another existential nugget in a line too long to be merely repetitive.
"Desire's of no use, but then neither are desirables. And so, in conclusion, we must first tend our own flock before we flock around with other people's — or, if you so wish, other people. Can I go now?"
All right.

Dear boy. My one-man audience once was brimming with reaction, be it faint, stiff praise, or Never Again prayers. But the handiwork of these fingers slowed, almost to a halt, and never showed, if ever it did, a thing but faint obscurantism — almost to a fault. So the T (as in Om), must, must, must, and yet mustn't and won't, slide his data-entry fingers up the date, if only to cure the air of a two-man community which moves at perhaps the least compelling pace this side of fungi.

Life Stoops

Since I last penned: the stories I could tell: number many, as with all, but all, if not most, aren't worth telling. No longer thoroughly abstemious, excluding ubiquitous tea-fuel. Perhaps being a soiled human isn't all that, although no longer can I drift, conversationless, and peer down my nose despite my height. Obviously it's Ben's fault, and, consequently, his decision as to whether to shower himself in scorn or praise. Other pastures — one in particular — remain intangibly obscure, semi-solely due to my new clock, the rest falling upon what ever. So it's limbo.

I'm not raging, and I'm still yet to pay, but should I worry? I don't care to answer that. The shame lies, or doesn't, here, but my fingers repel these ones and those zeros, and good on 'em. I prefer a box of nothing. A mulatto soul so rare, I cherish little else. Only a few more lifeless sentences, innocent, though proven guilty, and we'll be out of here. Not yet worthy of a bankroll. Not yet asleep. Failed at that. You filled in? Good.