The perfect protagonists, a heady mix of mind and balls, a hypothetic über demos. Sure imperfections are tremendously significant with regards to authenticity, but they are no necessary evil, they are utopia’s pucker garnish.
So much chasing after symmetry, a why could be thrown at our collective neurosis, a bottle neck of millions of individual little fuck ups. To see perfection as a defect. Evolution friendly scar tissue.
Yes, messy is beautiful, shying from chaos remains the conservative’s defining attribute. I say conservative, I mean more, the prude, the thing that fears lack, rejection and being made to feel small. The shit part of us.
Conservatives aren’t wrong, they’re just boring cunts. Which is a far more damning anti-achievement. No idea held dear that isn’t written in some dead book or learnt from some creatively cripple club. It’s the perpetuation of the status quo that we’re all so very concerned about. Both those out of the loop and those who tie loops around the necks of the beatnik vanguard. We are not now that same thing we were years ago, we’re something else, a heftier slalom awaits the salvation seeker. Run bitch.
Menacing and effacing and proper beautiful.
The all in brigade, bully boy cigar puffing bellies crammed into Armani suites flanked by private bank plastic filled saddle bags. Elite, sure, original? Fuck no. The same prime locale square meterage reflected by vacant holiday tomes riddled with over fucked coke mistress receipts.
Residue blow powder mixed with cum with tears with death squady tendencies.
It’s meaning they want.
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