the fuck of it is

Too much time hating what I have and glorifying what I don't.  Retrospect gives things a tint that is classy and kind.  Someday we will all flatten to caricatures of good and of evil between pages in time.  Time is slowing and solidifying around me already, I can feel it if I concentrate, the sparkling weightless protoplasm.  The cats see a bird and the air turns to syrup for an instant, then the trickle starts around the edges and the whole suffocating waterfall flow of it presses on and on and on and on and on.  

Is it trite is it trite to even to even try?