Whatever awakenes the willful spirit in a person cannot be atributed to randomness. Whether you are a stout believer of fate, worshipper of meaninglessness, or call yourself a slave to determinism, there is no denying that your current state leaves little room to arbitrarity, as every individual is a sum of interfering events that in turn play endless games of cat and mouse with chemical reactions and instincts. It seems that one's so called destiny is decided with frighteningly machine-like calculations. Who did this to you?

Language manifests itself as will and enslaves all who are congnitively able, setting them on a course to battle mythical beasts within themselves. One does not cultivate will when the automatic thought is littered with images of empty cans, fast food wrappers and the longing for more gaseous poisons.

I haven't gotten very far from the pervasive question "When?". In a way, dear reader, you are the automatic response to my plight - lowering yourself into a dream of a sleeping rat. I'm there. With 600Mhz and an idiotic illusion of solace in a chickpea keyboard. Brouk?

I took him apart, piled each and every part by an empty grave that would not be filled that day.

Unscrew a screw,
repeat to exhaustion.
Bezel by bezel,
strip the body.

Numb the tools
    as you mingle steel with steel.

Friction leaves behind trails of dust.
Does it breathe?
How could it?
The battery is gone.

Silicon and gold,
sparks of empty interactions.
Breathes in;
the screen flickers.

35 hundred revolutions per minute.
Impulses in RAM.
White on black.
Spiked fish in the fuel tank.

How far back have I degenerated to be saving dead machines from the hammer of obsoleting. Why is there such comfort in plain text, when the rest of the world booms with inviting colors, more than willing to take you on a heavenly ride. Paying with privacy of which you have none; money is no object when you will spend every coin.

"It is the principle! Do you not understand?" I understand. I know fear.

Putting back the plastics. Taping over cracks. Thoughts of kissing under autumn trees four summers ago invite themselves in. "Run BSD," and she melts under my touch. Back to the ship of the fools.

Praha. Říjen, 2021