Meaning well ... or is he?

The Second attack of Braille for Lane Control.

Check for missing pieces here. The loss equals the gain, of which nobody can quite concisely imagine beforehand. Three constitutes a crown of thorns, if you certify two as a correct number for a loving relationship. They swear specific versions of Bible on it, as if kids don’t count ... did you know my fucking Catholic doctor wouldn’t give me vitality pills?! He said I had to be married; I mean, is that a law, or what? I’d turn the bastard in if he wasn’t so generous with pain medication. God knows we need some help every now and again. I always try to talk to people, to be friends, but ... shit. It’s hopeless. Nobody wants to listen, you know? Doesn’t matter where you are ... It’s a world of talkers out there. I went to Mardi-Grass, an’ my bro, he loved it so much at the end of the event, I didn’t know if he hated it so much, he was crazy, or lived it so much, he was mad. Oww, I love that song ... American woman, now stay aw-aa-ayy ... but not really. I’m wondering why people get so sequestered, or dense, they’re unaware they’re talking too much, which forces me to revolve around the wrongs in their world. Finally he senses a rambling diatribe and redoubles his efforts to snare me. Was he ever aware I was doing something before he sat down? He is a shark, prowling the tables of everybody, looking for energy scraps.

"You attract whack-os like that, because you’re actually interested, and most folks are too socially inept or stultifyingly-mainstream to acknowledge these quirky souls, not to mention sordidly self-focused like him, they are bereft of curiosity concerning our amazing universe of others." The T-Vee flickered its mind control through a deep funk of (cheap) cigar haze, and I paused to view it’s intensity. Welcome to Lifestyles of the Fucked-up, Famous and Upwardly Obsessed ... how large and soulless can your gated community clear-cut castle be? Shallow mercenaries struggle for basely-obtained riches in prime-time consent, broadcasting sickening Hollywood perspectives of egotism to the otherwise-generous and caring masses, kindling each person’s ever-present frenzy of the inner rat brain, single-focused to secure the dwindling reasons to overeat, free of guilt. They gnaw their countless competitors until they weaken from deception, or blood loss; an end result in death or disfigurement of aesthetics and close communities, but I have to admit, this show is fascinating, in a way. Like a horror movie, or mushy insipid movie scene, where you’re forced to hide your eyes, but are equally compelled to peek though the web of fingers intertwined. ‘At least his kids seems normal.’ the guy next to us says of the final contestants, simply to rile his frail-looking lover, who in thin veneer covets that hyper-American lifestyle. ‘Yea. Hopefully they’ll rebel, and become environmental guerrillas, to atone for their parents’ consumer terrorist crimes.’ She slaps his elbow. ‘They’re not that bad. Look how they enhance the world, with their skills.’ I felt like I’d missed something, so I didn’t take offense ... maybe there is something to mammals on TV, displaying their nests and dens to others. Keep an opened mind, the Buddha might say. I like the leather couch. And his sports car looks fast. The sky over his house is beautiful, especially reflected into his fake lake that’s nearly as good as a real one. Wound around the idea o fwhat it looks like to the outside world, he rounds our heavy thoughts around ourselves; his wife thinks it’s a perfect place to raise kids ... in a serene sterility, devoid of actual nature, real community, or notable art? I feel sorry to watch this, I said. But it’s a pleasant sort of sorry, seeing my life is full, although it radiates frustrations and sorrows, when I force its works through small holes.