Ninjas: 20th Century janissaries or a threat to public decency? You decide.
- What?
- Que?
- Yes.
- I’m here for the beer.
The mind, it’s like a rabbit - forget to feed it for a week and it dies.
Holiday’s over. Back to work. Cake on my mind, graham crackers, pasta - the kissing and the singing and the thought that if her boyfriend finds out, you’re dead. My thoughts, they revolve around me, teasing and prodding me here and there. It disturbs me from the convos, it takes me away from the TV. HD is good, but if you don’t finish this thing, you’ll be nothing.
Work, goddamit, work! It says. Continue the fight, just for a bit. Just look at the damn thing. Just look, you damn thing! I didn’t.
And now here we are, lard in the head.
Move, move! It says. You have to do what you have to do. But the mind is just… fucking Santa! Going into chimneys and shit, watching out for sleeping kids, drinking all the cookies, eating the milk. Someone should arrest this guy.
Aha! Humor. There are you are. It’s misplaced - like that key you left in the other pocket. Or in the other jacket?
Type type type. Wake it up! Move, move! Time slides, it shifts, and you’re nothing but a wave in space. Do something!
Buying is sensation based.
Snap, snap, think, type, power is overrated! Ninjas in flight, ballerinas in a fight… good Lord.
Fear is diarrhea, and ‘fuck it’ is your imodium.
Think, think! Move!
It never ends, never! We’re a perpetual machine. Like clockwork, we all move, gears, cogs, grinding each other down, endlessly… balls in space, silver, shiny, rolling and never ending.
Take it! Grab it by the nuts and show it who’s boss!
Balls!
The mind is like a rabbit. It jumps and hops and where it stops, fucking who knows. Oh, and it leaves droppings everywhere.