at what rough and bleak point in time did every single production of human heart, labor, and mind become unoriginal? you see, as i am constantly bombarded by things entirely new or original, i seem to recognize a familiar pattern, a comforting melody, or some other sign that gives the creation away to be a forgery, an old favorite made over as to fool the eye and mind. everything seems to be in this cycle, from the clothes we wear, to the music that encapsulates our mind, to the everyday habits we encounter in each separate individual, nothing seems to have gone unencountered in some previous discourse or circumstance. even these writings are a forgery, just hawthorn and hemmingway crossbred with subject matter stolen from a certain member of the oberst family. everything is influenced and nothing is pure, it makes me want to stand on the edge of a very large cliff and attempt to encounter some sharp rocks or jellyfish at the end of a free fall. however, that in itself would not be an original course of action. it all feels hopeless, like the a.b. repeat button has been pushed on the world to prevent all of our eyes from opening at the commencement of the scene. i give up for now.
listening to:
"What's Your Glitch" - An Airbag Saved My Life
"William Fills the Pipe" - An Airbag Saved My Life
"That Brandon Walker Charm" - An Airbag Saved My Life
"Victoria's Secret is Out" - An Airbag Saved My Life
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