The Possessed Man is not a bad man, nor a good one. He is terrified. Alone among friends and family, he “works” to support his family, but is not exactly sure of what he does. He “administrates creative product strategies,” according to the Job Description on file at Human Resources.
We are in the mad-mad-mad world of delusions and Pokémon. Sure, that Fukushima premature, err, glow, solved by dental lead bib over the ovaries and testes (see photo directly below). Yep, the world has gone to Type Three Diabetes. Quoting that article on radioactive proof of our dumbdowning DNA. Is it HFCS that’s eating away at our noggin? Those 10,000 newly compounded chemicals produced each year chipping away at IQ?
Americana dream a step away from flesh-candy; shocked me from sleep, naked, shivering with touch of mortal, sensitive to the slightest things: unable to bear even routine decay; no longer firm, nor young, nor fit to profit from exchange.
The bah-sheep shorn again, poor fleeced multitudes, dead weight on my conscience, their fate burdens my soul.
Heaviness of chest and gut (doom-coronary? gas-bloat?) then stabbing pain. I’m usually too numb to fear, but verily we’re facing nasty shit, horrifying scene.
