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    The nearly-erotic massacre I hold with this place hides in very visible corners, in passing garbage cans, and later, when still No One is watching, in my light sleep.

    My walking-boundaries consist mostly of not the alarms themselves, but the very ones the alarms silently wait to obnoxiously overflow for, which, really, is only another placed irony that doesn't matter, care, or breathe, which happens to be yet another ironic s**t, which happily gives itself to a vicious, starving circle that reminds me - of course - of the very b***h that began it all in the first place.

    Is it hot in here to You? Feels like hell to me, even when knowing that that place lurks at my elbow rather than my neck.

    I'll tell you why the music's so damned loud - it's those alarms again - reminding me that no, I'm not in some jolly, wondrous place as so often the idea I play dress up with happens to be, even if for one minute this seems like Her on a map; all the Youth in the world can't block them out, for everywhere I go, they mock me like I'm the dead queen on parade - losing their saliva - stepping on my toes - perhaps I should break out a hammer I tell myself (but here is an Ocean! - an ocean of a thousand fish, and I a crippled shark).



    That big, empty field over there - it being where I usually shove my "Emptyhanded" - is possibly where It is the most, though I can't even see it - I just witness its Inhabitants, which makes me wonder if by some further inconvenience, all of them by now know of the tool and how I can barely tweak their gears when even given the opprotunity.