Days filled with nothing. . .
Nothing happens that didn't happen yesterday or the day before yesterday or the day before the day before yesterday. . .
Wake at the same hour and begin again performing the same functions. There may be *people* around us. The same pull-string talking doll words are spoken. . .
Work or no work, it makes no difference. Productive work is never found. The hours are passed at a phone, a register, a computer terminal. Meaningless.
One man works, another doesn't. Neither contributes anything. . .
One man works, another doesn't. Neither contributes anything. . .
The days pass one after another after another after another. . .
Days filled with nothing. . .
People fall in love. . .until they realize how much they hate each other. And the same mistake is made again and again, generation after generation.
We hear tales from far off of people suffering, they need to become more like us. . .
The herd grazes, and we boast of living!
The journal of human life is filled with blank pages. . .
Pages filled with nothing. . .
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty blank pages. . .
Then, ONE OF THOSE DAYS. . .and we would destroy the world.
One of those days, when things don't go quite right. . .everything just a little off, so that our eyes open after weeks and months of somnolence, and we discover the horror of our living.
It is enough to make us dream of mushroom clouds, swastikas and Baphomet violating the cultural pet of the day. . .
The Journal of Human Life, Page 41:
People fall in love. . .until they realize how much they hate each other. And the same mistake is made again and again, generation after generation.
We hear tales from far off of people suffering, they need to become more like us. . .
The herd grazes, and we boast of living!
The journal of human life is filled with blank pages. . .
Pages filled with nothing. . .
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty blank pages. . .
Then, ONE OF THOSE DAYS. . .and we would destroy the world.
One of those days, when things don't go quite right. . .everything just a little off, so that our eyes open after weeks and months of somnolence, and we discover the horror of our living.
It is enough to make us dream of mushroom clouds, swastikas and Baphomet violating the cultural pet of the day. . .
The Journal of Human Life, Page 41:
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