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Desperate Cry for Help 029
Psycho-killer metric system, things have all converted now. My island of loneliness has lifted in a haze of industrial house Muzak. I'm cruising down past stone colleges in a junked-out clapped out green Ford Escort capable of traveling at speeds in excess of 55 kilometers per hour.
The tires are bald, the driver is laughing, and somewhere, between the repetitive shrills of drum 'n bass I think I see a brief glimpse of happiness, but it turns out to be his younger cousin "Vaguely Amused."
And so Vaguely Amused is trying to get me to laugh, and he's doing an okay job - nothing to write home about, but it passes the time and nobody gets hurt.
Maybe that's the whole problem with life.
It's just a bunch of vaguely amused bastards who never push the envelope, who never dare to go that extra mile, who ALWAYS think "Hey, man, We can totally draw inside the lines. It will be awesome."
I hate reality. But at least I only live in it sometimes.
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