I listen to the cicadas requiem outside during an early autumn evening. I traverse the heavens through the drivers seat, my forlorn woes moving through my yesterdays. I have escaped the dull-eyed and indifferent outside world and have found myself motionless in the digital purgatory with my brothers once more.
Whether the words of men require identity is not the question of my age, but rather whether they feel identifiable; living in the common experience, recombinant and folded into a shared causality. Here I am seen. Here I am free again.
>>25554243Pretty good.
>>25554243>motionless>in the digitaldo you just stare at your log in screen all evening?
And all that gets you is a shitpost. Sad.