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God's Twitter by Ray Printer Friendly

Do you need to know? Should I tell you? How you ever gonna know me, it's not like we dance the same dances or feel the same pains. How you gonna reach me, how you gonna touch me?

What'chu wanna know? You wanna know who I am, you wanna know how I got here? Forget it. Lies. Everything I am is lies, just like the whole world. Everything is an illusion.

All we have in common is that we're founded in deception. Who are you? Who are you when the lights are off and the room is quiet except for your lousy, stupid breathing, when there's no one left to lie to, when you do it anyway, because truth is pain, and there's no reason to tolerate pain in this comfortable world.

We drink fire and kiss snakes, and our spirits fuck the wind and none of it matters, not anymore. It never did, we came too late in the game for all that. You can't change the world anymore, for good or for bad. It's all been done, and whatever you do, it's just a repeat, a copy of a copy of a copy.

Individuality has been patented. Statistics and newsfeeds form your opinions, mold you into someone exactly the same as someone else who is trying to be different. Your brand new, still-in-the-plastic idea was old a hundred years ago, and you're just too ignorant to know it.

Strawberry-scented rape and foods full of poison and a million other things to worry about, but the only truth is that it doesn't matter if we worry or not. Scream at the moon and see if it changes, see if it reads your paper-board signs or your status updates. Do you think it cares for your audio blogs or your letters to the editor? It continues on as if you don't exist, because you don't.

You are imagination, with your political stands and your moral outrage and your social graces and whatever else it is that you think comprises you. You're nothing. A fleeting idea, one that escaped into the wild, and can't be erased, no matter how much I want it.


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