Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Hands

Some people don't use their hands. They use their feet and they scribble with pencils, but they've never used their hands; they've never put anything together.

Once it comes to putting things together, they think they know what they're doing because they've scribble scribble scribbled so much, and everyone thinks they know what they're doing because they've scribble scribble scribbled. Then, because they use their feet, they are, therefore, "well-rounded."

Everyone is wrong. Scribbling and feet-machen mean nothing, because unless you've put something together, and it has broken, you will never be able to put something together.

They don't see beauty in obtaining the solutions, only the solutions, and there they see no beauty, only a task. Their lives are burdens, and they themselves burden everyone else.

Numbers made these people, but not just those. The acceptance of numbers as a standard, a bar, and making comparison of numbers the only standard has brought these cold people to life. They have no hearts, only blood. They have no minds, only brains. It takes a mind to make something, but a mind has never been built.

Words to them are solutions, not a process. Greyface has them by the balls and throat. Poetry is an analysis, not a state of mind. They may make an essay, but it's a purpose. It's dogshit.

I hate them. I hate them all. And because they're the Gods of Numbers, they always win. Fuck 'um.

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