January 28, 2004

Plastic thoughts, floating like dead fetuses in jars of formaldehyde. No shape or form to them, a dead developmental stage.
sit down for tea, let us pore over the infinite programs of executions that you so carfully planned. Thank you for including every detail.
Greasy hair, calloused hands. You’re never going to wake up, so turn off the alarm and just keep sleeping.

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