A POST

What is the 'post' for? Who cares...it is unhealthy to encourgae people to talk to themselves, with the tender delusion of an audience. Still...this is the glory of writing. A small mouse in a yoghurt pot running out of air. The sublime arrival of a signpost that is recklessly illegible. The venting of self righteous rants, of rage directed as if with authority upon tiny discomforts that constitute the every day. The fat man still stuffing his face. The slowly shuffling crowd ,when rushing against the clock. The billboard bullshit of a 'status update'. The critical indignation and anger at a 'status update'. The commentary upon the whole shitty snowglobe with the anonymous tap of a keyboard. The stream of consciousness loosing consciousness, but still oh so conscious of its presented conscience. A waste of time. Inevitable. Attractive. Abhorrent. A lobster squealing in a vat of boiling water, the blushing carapace creaking as it cooks. A green hillside. A celebrated skid mark on all that is possible, slowly dribbling out of sight.