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this dust distracting me.

No Jason here. You may call me Ishmael for now, but we are not friends enough to know each other by name yet. I could cut you, though, would you like that?…Huh?. I’m a big, hairy cannibalistic ape, now. I could eat your face into oblivion, ripping your personality from those two eye socket you’ve got in your head, and lick the teeth clean when I’m done there. You may not choose the madness that infects you, but you must be aware what you put into yourself. Others will be eventually, and they will tell the whole world about you. You, however, do not need to know any of this, but still it doesn’t hurt to realize something just before you die. Don’t hamstring me now, I won’t want to stop this cheap display of opposition, but you can still hurt me if you want. It won’t do you any good. I will teach you about the world, if you desire the lessons, and you must want a way out of the labyrinth, right?…Everyone wants out. Tearing an implied veil of superstitious disbelief away to save the shuddering corpse from gasping for a final breath. The core of us all is the pump that makes us the machinery to reckon with. Though there seems that most common desire to become more and more artificial to the point of a humorless construct affecting the here and now. Letting the zombie out to play. The buffet is a display of raucous treats of meat and disgracefully overstuffed trays of tales of veggies that betray a face of visual streams blowing by and into mouth with dipping sauce, a dubious trend in restaurants today. You can’t pain me the way I drain you. You stiff me with your sheltering views. You contrive and connive into believing that your truth is true. The viscous ways of tremendous throes of isolated woe. A succulent chop to dine upon, to savor the deliciousness that comes with entering an understanding with your food, and allows you time to commune with the nature you see all around you. Your masks wear thin as they lie. Breaking down the skin with sins and time. Erode the past to make room for the future. Times into memories into gone, there is no solution. You’ll have to face your syndrome, and take your medicine. As you grow thick and fat, befuddled as the ages lapse, and you must know that to dust you’re spat. Welcome to the dry womb.