It’s sad, really. It’s silent. Quiet. I like it, except when I’m sleeping. It didn’t used to be this way. It wasn’t always like this.
It’s funny, really. It’s so far away. Distant. I’ll use it if I ever get it. It wasn’t used that way. It wasn’t always like this.
It’s a piece of art for all to see, to look at, to admire, to judge. You put it out there, no one else. There was a decision to be made: hold on to it so that no one could see and think that it’s perfect, or give it to the world and let it be judged as possibly being imperfect.
It hurts, really. It stings. Sharp. I avoid it when I can. It wasn’t always this painful. It used to be easier.
I can’t, really. It’s difficult. Impossible. I like to read it, except when I’m eating. My memory of it is fading but I can’t believe it was always this way.
It’s just words on a page, on a screen, on a television, in a movie theater. It doesn’t have to be anything more than it is. It doesn’t have to prove itself. There is a decision to be made: dispense the medicine and potentially kill a thousand people or dispense the medicine and potentially save a thousand people.
It’s fast, really. It’s quick. Speedy. I used to like it but I don’t anymore. I can’t say how I felt about it too far in the past because it’s new. I just know that I used to like it but I don’t anymore.
It makes you think, really. It’s thoughtful. Ponderable. Don’t ask me to explain because it’s always been this way and I’ve always felt the same way about it. As long as I can remember my feelings toward it have never changed.
It’s funny, really. It’s so close to me now. Intimate. I’ll put it away once I’ve used it. I wasn’t used to it that way. It wasn’t always like this.
I’m feeling the negativity. I hear it. It’s wearing on my skin. It itches a little. It makes me scratch. It makes me a little uncomfortable. I don’t recall if it was always this way or if this is a new development. I would go to sleep but this I would dream.
I didn’t always feel this way, it wasn’t always like this. But I don’t remember, I can’t recall.
It’s sad, really.
It’s funny, really. It’s so far away. Distant. I’ll use it if I ever get it. It wasn’t used that way. It wasn’t always like this.
It’s a piece of art for all to see, to look at, to admire, to judge. You put it out there, no one else. There was a decision to be made: hold on to it so that no one could see and think that it’s perfect, or give it to the world and let it be judged as possibly being imperfect.
It hurts, really. It stings. Sharp. I avoid it when I can. It wasn’t always this painful. It used to be easier.
I can’t, really. It’s difficult. Impossible. I like to read it, except when I’m eating. My memory of it is fading but I can’t believe it was always this way.
It’s just words on a page, on a screen, on a television, in a movie theater. It doesn’t have to be anything more than it is. It doesn’t have to prove itself. There is a decision to be made: dispense the medicine and potentially kill a thousand people or dispense the medicine and potentially save a thousand people.
It’s fast, really. It’s quick. Speedy. I used to like it but I don’t anymore. I can’t say how I felt about it too far in the past because it’s new. I just know that I used to like it but I don’t anymore.
It makes you think, really. It’s thoughtful. Ponderable. Don’t ask me to explain because it’s always been this way and I’ve always felt the same way about it. As long as I can remember my feelings toward it have never changed.
It’s funny, really. It’s so close to me now. Intimate. I’ll put it away once I’ve used it. I wasn’t used to it that way. It wasn’t always like this.
I’m feeling the negativity. I hear it. It’s wearing on my skin. It itches a little. It makes me scratch. It makes me a little uncomfortable. I don’t recall if it was always this way or if this is a new development. I would go to sleep but this I would dream.
I didn’t always feel this way, it wasn’t always like this. But I don’t remember, I can’t recall.
It’s sad, really.