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I am Procrustean. I stretch the fibrous tissue and snap the osteal twigs of my body of knowledge and imagination so as to vomit upon here an oxymoronic superfluousness as splotching summer bird shit that inevitably follows freshly washed transportations of capitalist inmortui dichotomia. I am a treaded traveller of traffic lights and inclement construction. My mind is infested with the anxiety of a reckoning interpretation of my past. And so I continue to amputate whatever I might be upon the iron bed of social diathermy and bone nibbling assujettissement. All of this to fit into the uniformity of whatever I think I am.
And I think that I am contingently conceived as another piece of meat into an indoctrination, a culture, a race; a nineteenth century pleonasm, a historically Marxist interpretation of class; all socially constructed lies saturated in truth that claws until broken fingernails and pulverized fleshy blood smears and tangs the glass panopticon that I look into and out from. Am I nothing but a categorization? An identities identity? A status within a status? I think that whatever I am is much more of an incinerate landfill. Perhaps I am merely a mind of simulacra and a grand privileged conceit watching the decimating carnage of someone else's world through the interpretation of hyperreality.
Do I press the buttons on my iPhone? No, they press me.
