LANDLINE PASCOM

CHAPTER X

Simon opened his eyes and spun, the doorway to which he crossed was no longer there, nor to the stringy coils of the wire from the handset, nor that empty darkness that had the infectious desire to bluster and contradict his concupiscence to unravel this great beyond he can claim to be the end. Then came people that had these desired uniforms in them, as if they are to be subjected to hastiness while they gave these shuffles between their feet and mouthed words that came as word salad.

The place was carpeted with a thin layer of gray covering, foamy to his touch, and soft, as to how his hands sunk just enough to make him feel that concrete floor. And then, the constant tapping noises that entertained him, business came this way, fraught with the desire to wear everything you have. Their faces, all cheery and conspicuous, elucidating the gist of how this job should be taken, like a mask, designed to capture the purest essence of what you can manipulate, like the frail constitution these fuckfaces have. Yet, one could never lie how much they forgone everything just to be sold to the very thing they expected to have, the job they all thought off, the cage that constricted every movements they do as these people were like bees bearing a singular motive to serve the overseer, and then the overseer, as cunning and deceptive as a snake that would eye them with loathe and pride. All puppets for his fingers to twirl.

In latter days, being called by the head is of deducing, you will never know how it can be a bad thing, nor a fortune for you to claim, in which despondency will eat you leaving an answer that can satiate your desire to know the outcome right away. Stoicism, hypocritical, cynicism, dejection, dissention, and of flippancy as this course of concluding is just trivial, and conducive. Simplified as a coarse, addressed as a form of flippancy, explicitly discussed as something worth fawning. That is the gist of conclusion, stupidity, and the plummeting of subversive thoughts that will drape to your mind like carpet, turns your perception into jello. Moreover, pining iteration, something too blatant and bland for you to begin with. And to where his own line had drawn, they all wandered about, minding their own business.

Simon stood up, willing himself to boldly pluck the knife plunged deeply to his core, disposing it some place else laterwards. He began pacing ahead, submerging himself to the expanse of people occupying the same room with a rote intuition to grind their gears, pulverize their dreams, and tarnish the colors and outlines they own, innate to their humanity.

In simplicity, employing something you badly wanted can cause you yourself, that is the existence of jobs, to have yourself molested, and with the power to govern yourself just to creep to the hands of a government based agency?

Slavery, inconsequential for you to notice. We are owned by these suited people that had cartons of milk and sweet ham and fries to their table, we're made to share that benefitting product we worked for, minus the expenses you have in the company. We can be our own kings, and queens, and jacks, and spades, and aces, and cloves, and diamonds, and hearts, as in, solitaire cards. Maker of all probability, yet we fetter ourselves to what is considered to be a form of vogue. Our demand meets with the needs, and the needs we have are altered by the cost of what we weaved. We are very pissed at what these flowery words of excuses can make us do, patience and calmness are the only thing that fools us, and we're too stupid, ignoble, and naive to even perceive our own ravings. Our minds convince us to be sharp, our hearts dulls that unimaginable thought of being regal. We are beyond every weakness ever known to men, the peril of destructive organisms is to be feared, whereas the malleability of our minds is overlooked. We are too fed to have our own bread be sliced into pieces, into equal portions and have it fed to the others and not deserving of what we worked for. We are totally pissed, if these sloven rapscallions are as fat as they can be.

Fatphobic is just an excuse to have yourself breathed like some pack of swine, have your stomach gorge foods and melons like a hippopotamus, and pant like the last person ever to inhale the purest air of gaia. Everyone of them can be considered as heroes and movie stars, and influencers that we look on to, but what a disgrace that these people tended to regress like a mentally challenged idiot where the disparity of their autistic ravings are considered and tolerated. The growing crisis of us that remained true to ourselves is to watch how these people, men fitted to be dickheads, man-child that they are, flood the market place with their uncouth promulgation. Disgusting.