Providence is porridge

They made an adjudication to execute an abjuration of the post’s religious dichotomy, leaving only the judaic infrastructure in place. It was initially unclear to the penitents as to whether the elimination of their sect was due to an attrition in the judgements of the financial department or the lack of contrition among their various, unflinchingly immoral members. Regardless of any attempts at rescuing the department through stern genuflection with dusty brows beating against the molasses floors, the institution of their faith was deemed didactically inefficient by the school’s board of directing anathema chuckers.

With a seemingly insignificant shove in the direction of the executive’s full with-a-lack-of-use ink-pot, the granny’s record begins to skip in the fervent, hay-wired cognizant manner of a frayed microchip. Poverty-stricken youth jumble down from the clattering roof-tops be-sandeled in decadently cheap attire (the type that will be adopted at your nearest fashion acropolis within the next few years as avant-garde and “risque”) and clamber towards the libations as desperately as the clown seeking mirth. Victuals as food as nourishment as provisions as the nutrients that supply regeneration to friction-bent organisms.

Impetuous actions are delved out like loaves of bread in the Egyptian market to beggars under the guise of forgotten remembrances of a betrayed brother. Joseph the helmsman recognizes the truth behind the emotionally drained tint in their eyes and offers vittles as the least acrimonious form of delaying his pronouncement as the harmonic hermano to the trivially tyrannical troop of surreptitiously avaricious bodkins who plundered the will of their weeping father with a blind man’s bluff.

Even with the 20-20 hindsight of regular reactionary procedures, the evincement that our misplaced modifier of a man has anything but goodwill in his heart is salacious, and, by a degree, supercilious in the vein of hoping to achieve moral dominance over a self-less human being. Although these are said to be entirely chimeric, the truth of the interaction between riddled, hunger-bellied men and princes is that the supplication answered is divine and begs for no remonstrance from critics.

And panned out across generational gaps in social media networking expert communicative regions, the unhindered bits of cinematic reality are displayed with the effulgence of a proclaimed human experience; a conversation struck up between business partners in a Russian bivouac meeting of synergy holds similar semblances of truth as it does for the unwinding youth in an altogether American alleyway puncturing his skin with the modern day muse of dextroamphetamine, a hitherto unknown abuse-material given a phoenix’s resurrection by the all-too-willing hands of a brow-beaten chemist.

Well it’s said that those who imbibe are those who require and desire all that they cannot have in the natural state of things and thus are venturing into the realm of preternatural humanity by inserting their well-beings in the hands of the blood-brain barrier and its ampere productivity. That being said it’s the emoticon that betrays true emotion rather than enunciation. In the ancillary bychances of romantically ideal conversation between disconnected snot-heads we witness the overbearing self-pity that grips at the soul like a tumescent sense of entitlement. Tossing themselves into the premature grave of self-repression and emotional torment like the willow-willed lotus eaters of antediluvian mythology, the twin-figured atavistically-charged consumers of pseudo-science and hipster-entwined beatnik psychology gnash on the fruit of other men’s labor and proclaim that all is purposeless in the relation of a blink.

In the perturbed manner of a cackling mannerism, such as is the vacuous and utterly pithy exhaust-winding that these antagonistically-bent gentlemen crave, the intimately executed sperm relinquishment into softly trodden digestive systems. Stern men call this cumming “inside”. While their beards capture flecks of whatever it is that they have recently acquired at a healthy and organically subsidized food market, heavily rimmed spectacles droop down the fronts of their faces like the indomitably deformed structuralism of El Greco and the infinitely, indelibly seared image of the economics wench brewing cyber-valium to retroactively beat down my fervor.

It’s a situation analogous to the presence of flouride in all major, first-world water systems, when really the hygienic aspect of its chemical structure is largely outweighed by the negative trepidation it engenders in its drinkers, who are content with being unawares of their enthrallment, like sheep clamoring for the enslavement of a farm in fear of a singular wolf. Begging the question of numerical normality, it’s troubling to be struck laconic by an instinctual fear when all the years of progress have shown us our ability to lash out at oppression.

Up to this point in our psychosexual, megalomaniacal theatre of the ubermensch inspired, Hegelian-dependent, Nietzchian love for supercilious domination of underclassmen, we’ve viewed the lurid nose of Jason Schwartzman nearly pierce the LCD barrier of the fourth wall and reality by smashing through Wes Anderson’s auteur visions of the human condition (which is often a derivation of satirically brilliant manifestations of style).

Following that brass-knuckle of modern film to our skulls, we developed a tenuous appreciation for the simultaneous lack of depth in these films and the presence of an altogether radically diametric approach to regurgitating the contents of each character’s persona; by gripping entrances tightly shut and holding their expressionism to a reticent standard, the steely-eyed and oppositely slack-jawed cast are given a breath of life only afforded by the hands of a 21st century Geppetto, cobbling romanticism into each swirl of texture in his production teams’ epidermis.

Directly connected to that node of hypersensitive candor, the paradox of beautifully ignorant cultural ubiquity lends itself to the novel CAA by FD which delves into the psyche of one Ras as he pursues himself in less of a whodunnit and more of a when-shall-I-say-what-I-did-which-racks-me-with-guilt and pushing past that point of admitting culpability would be nearly impossible without exceptional foresight as I’ve only consumed the completed portion of a dictum set by the whip-bearing, melon-capped wench of a cunt who drives at our sore backs like the original malicious men who nearly martyred Moses.

If he was to utter “Let my people go,” or concordantly, “Let my Cameron go,” borrowing directly from the cinematic classic FBDA, she would merely respond with an inherently unknowable and irrevocably harsh instance of a violated will from the penultimate pages of a magnum opus which no one has cared to read but knows is intrinsically treasurable from the first word “BREAKS,” which is printed exactly as typed here and shocks each man who cracks the spine with the comfortable ease of a self-proclaimed lexile champion and puts the text down in a matter of seconds with a florid demeanor and a reexamined sense of fortitude.

Inveigled by an underwhelming idea, the leaders of such an independence movement would be remiss if they hadn’t assumed the position of providing new lessons to the morality of their forefathers and stitching lesions into the collectively unconscious ideology of their ancestors. That is to say it is their duty both to break forth with innovation and also to pump the prime principality of attrition, all while remaining overtly meek to appease their initial followers and secondary campaign contributors (a max of 2,300 is legally allowed).

This is also the amount that the soon-to-be-knighted Sir Matt Damon of the Bostonian province of the United Kingdom offered up to his noble Lord Obama, who is not only currently in precedence as the first black president but also maintains that stereotypical arched dome that is connotative of a particularly incisive wit and brings to mind Moriarty of Arthur Conan Doyle canon. That’s a villainous tag, however, so ignore its presence in this stream of unconsciousness.

As the winter breath crackles under the Bourne-man’s trudging feet, a sense of hypo-patriotism juggles between his internal organs and finally decides to ascend to the heavens in a tribute to both the pederastical Uncle Sam and the pop starlet KP who provided a treatise on the benefits of positive thinking and the adventurous aspect of lugging one’s spirit into the firmament of the heavens.

Instinctively, and with the newly dawned knowledge of one who begins to understand the symmetry of the man who plods around the page in a random progression of advancing schizophrenia and falsely phrased truism, it’s the dichotomy of having to project oneself as intelligent in a world of increasingly succinct identification, all while maintaing a personal flair for the written word and hoping to hold a style, which Ira Glass says is achieved by pursuing the creation of a voluminous amount of work, regardless of its initial quality. I believe he’s completely and utterly correct in his statement that only exponentially expansive amounts of creation can benefit one in the area of pluralistic production, as one begins to delve into the micro-substantive aspects of one’s own work, as opposed to the holistic stoicism achieved by the blubbering lips of the like of Bloom. That is not in disrespect to literary critics, but rather to anyone that attempts to convey a false sense of empathy while deliberately slashing at the aspirations of a knight-glissant.

But who can make sense of Achebe’s criticisms of Conrad’s portrayal of the black man as a savage when really JC was the savage wielding the tom-tom of ensconced emotion set in the backdrop of a jungle invaded by the force of intimidating imperialism. I loved the idea of a novel that explored the theme of an inner-grit that shone throughout the omniscient depravity of man. It’s the same reason that the average man loves to watch television programs about their fellows triumphing under the curious force of oftentimes self-imposed adversity and coming out with a regulation of lessons in one hand and a cudgel of haleness in the other.

Divided across the hearty line of two millenniums and a vast epi-culture of roman numerals composing a sea of eukaryotic cells that plunge into an ocean of calcium and overdose on evolutionary procedures, driven by a primordial monkey on their single-celled backs and hankering for a fix that in the short-term appears to be deprivation but in the decadence of a stretched-out half-mile jog comes full circle as just what the human brain needs to expound its sense of balance in the universe and eschew the aggressive tendencies given to us by our relative reptiles.

Simplistic visions of utopian Mores dash out across the plain of self-expression like the buffalo awaiting to be skewered by healthy minds, only to find that with each consumption comes one less valued idea and that the geniuses who produced them are long-withered and stricken with amnesic illnesses, incapable of satiating the rumbling fervor of readers. Without this perfection comes the bloom of the dystopian vision of soma which seems much more realistic than a society that can service itself to the optimum amount and provide itself with the ideal amount of happiness. These rookeries of fictional bliss come to be superseded by the temporally comatose limpings into the grey realities of an existent tomorrow, filled to the brim with changelings and horrendously mutated governmental structures that are even more horrifying given their close resemblances to our own.

These bashings of standard society, in accordance with the effect of the mass populace achieved in the novels (a typical sense of dysphoric apathy, combined with atheistic theology and a striking inability to cease caring about not caring but lacking the necessary functions to care enough to change), drive towards the real-time purpose of shocking us into realizing just what the Big Brother has in store for the clamoring sheep. Each author who divided his parchment with this ink forgot that as long as we love to live in this world and eat its food by the rules of our leaders, naught but corruption is cultured, and it will be that way until a cataclysmic event shunts our belief systems through a metaphorical window of stained-glass magic realism.