Curry

Swirling tropical incantations of dowry’s and curry wafting to my linguistic sinus hopefully awakening some spark of recognition in association of my sinister self. Ripped apart mercilessly and sewn haphazardly back together with American parts making it smell no longer of curry and sweat but like rotten processed cheddar drizzled on a piece of fresh but poorly made Naan bread. The brown imitation vinyl leather has a distinctly pukey orange color to it. I don’t mind on account of the marvelous job the vomitesque ersatz leather seems to be doing in supporting my rectal cushioning. I marvel for a moment at my own use of language but as they say; masturbation’s lost its fun so you’re fucking lonely. But not pathetically so, just self-consciously so in the sense that to be otherwise would simply require far too much effort on the part of the organism. So in the interests of energy conservation I remain solo. Solo. Seul. One. Alone. A silence. No question. No answer. No hermeneutic relation save in the objects which call me forth in some Heideggerian “Being in the World.” What the fuck does that mean anyway. Nonsense, sheer nonsense. Or is it? What the fuck does that mean anyway. Stop Repeat. Start again. Repeat. Stop. Over again. Stop. Repeat. Start from the beginning. The tropical beginning. Stop. I need caffeine.