Last day of freedom. But why just now.
The more I say, the less I do. When the clock begins ticking, it's me that does the reverse. Does that make me the anti-clock? Probably.
Eleven months later the plan goes into full motion. Hopefully this time it leads to fruitful results. A little bit unprepared really but the plan is already set in motion. Honestly, I just remembered it five minutes ago. Fuck.
So they say I should honour my own principles lest I be buried within the shadows of my doubts. I always have doubts, everyone has their own doubts. No matter the issue, there will always be doubts, and doubts give me reassurances. Reassurances that I need to overcome obstacles. Obstacles I need to overcome to gain maturity. Maturity that I never had, ever so evasive, ever the trickster, ever the pain in the fucking ass.
We swallow the pride. Our pride. Yes, I am poor. We are poor. Poor in spirits, poor in wealth, poor even in hardships. Yet I stand here bearing the potential that I can never see or touch or smell. Except the lingering scent of shit in this room, from last night's poo party, I reckon.
The end of vices, whichever ones, begins today and ends tonight and goes on mirroring the next day and the next day after the next day and the next day after that day and so on.
Put my pen to paper. Finally that audacity, that well-needed urge. I should have done this a long time ago.
Speaking of scents, worry about hygiene constantly. Why constantly? Just because. Tidiness should be a priority. A changed man's itinerary almost always begins there.
Talk about fucking moving one's ass. Find a job and stop fapping. It's not good for the blue balls.
It's time to eat the fucking world. Shout, don't whisper. Run, don't walk. Punch, don't slap.
The real man, the one true man, it growls when its internal organs harden. It hardens when it's threatened. It's threatened to remain tame. The one true man controls both.
Getting laid, of course, is a given. Not the hardest adversary really but potentially the trickiest. There are many a factor involved, most of which are known to even the imbecile.
Fix the fucking sleep. Not just sleep there, sleep then. Find a motion, if you will. Take advantage of the fact that the sun disappears and reappears over and over even when you're non-existent.
Go outside. Smell the fresh scent of others' faecal breaths. Get run over in the streets while on a bike. Pick a fight with a chav, act a loon. Read books in parks, but in reality eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Imagine a life of dystopia. Remind yourself of the dreams of well-informed men. Make it your nightmare. Piss yourself into thinking the time, as the anti-clock would, has finally, and inevitably, come. Revolve your thoughts into a basin and put a piledriver in the middle. Somehow smile at that image while coercing the heavens to do the same.
I would order people to bend to my will. Even to no avail. Exert your authority. Burn the cesspool of filth if needed.
Climb atop the mountains of Central House, knowing fully well the lift is down and out.
Create a paradox dedicated for myself. Linger at the idea and create a barrier between reality and imagination. Do what you fucking can to rule the world. It's ours for the taking. Our enemies are none the wiser.
Start dancing anywhere you see fit. Be the master of the plains. Commit arson, commit treason, commit even your own god-fucking-damn daughter.
Complete global saturation of the pig population, literally and metaphorically. That includes the pigs itself.
Take evidence of it all. Full accounts, interviews, videos, photographs, photographic memories, even taxidermy. Cut your heart out for souvenirs.
From atop my own balcony, I wait. I wait for that one particular moment. Full of intent and disgust, flood the mind with tragic melodies. Be glad no one's there to witness it all. The grandest spectacle of all.
And lastly, make friends with your selves. For they are the only true company.