There is no bed but that which makes a lapdog hum.

Little Red Womanhood
made me some soup that's good.

"Take your mask off," she said.
Yes, I replied.
"Except for this piece of peppermint."
My mother.
Look to the GROUND! I shuddered.
"Eventually it will be all these things and more."
And they do choose we are men in cages.
People like Bay Root, the Candyballman.
It's soft, city center leaps up to touch it's own norteno pride.
A millennium skillet and mother frightened me.
Blue basket picnic bears go astumbly-
retardando.

you have the choice to pay attention to people who act fake or honestly depraved

PITCHED BETWEEN MODEL AMERICANS AND THEIR 2-BIT MIDDLE DREAMS OF GLORY LASSOED UP TIGHT AGAINST THEM LIKE THE GYPSY-BELLE (SOUTH OF NOWHERE) COUSIN THEY COULD NEVER HAVE.
FORGIVE ME BROTHER BUT YOUR TRUCK IS BIGGER THAN I CAN UNDERSTAND.

Life is not "school." School is not life.

Do not let yourself become a robot.
The point has to do with learning how to move like a robot (in order to trick the robot world into not noticing you) so you will blend in. When doing this, however, there is a profound possibility you may lose remembrance of your true identity and dreams and intentions. Because the more you learn to move like a robot, the more time you take up playing the role of a robot. You could be doing something else.
You could be exploring the non-robotic possibilities of Life. True learning has nothing to do with memorization; you must absorb your environment, you must empathize with it all in order to really understand it.
Coldly callous scalpel ice shining by precision-cut vertical bloodless lines are for dumbo atheist runaways. Don't let yourself lose sight of the fact that something miraculous is happening; most of what you are doing, most of what is going on in the world (the real world, not the pre-chewed twinkie fascination with locks and doors (guns are for sissies) and vicarious bystanding bullshit) is not understood or known. -Who are you without words or actions?

again with the library smack

Mad mother matriarch stomps around and tromps around planting angry fists of books into unwilling, ungrateful shelves and hefting her haughty purgatory through passageways and door frames and behind large hard desks to uneventful, benevolent pedestals for her portly mass to be displayed from.
Constipated look in eyes, glasses in hand, "Don't attack my person (you small, threatening male)!" Visibly nudged -nearly budged from her rotten Roman dock of obese inner-snarling, she pretended to help (thinks she's helping) by pointing out symbols to show she did something.
Lumpy greyish hairfroth in tangled overflowing mass of steelwool scrubbiness tumbling down her tortured headpride -a mummified reassurance to coffins and dusty shadowsplotches.