The tremors

Its been a week since I have been here, my home to say. Nothing has changed, except that I did vocalize my need to seperate, experimentally, with the shirt on my back and the 50k that I had paid for the home advance. Earlier in the day, she asked me if 50k was enough, with the eye of a dead fish. Her man was there, and it sure was funny. She dosnt know that it is. A life beyond the home comforts. An animal can be domesticated for a few and this one, me, has done his time.

I need to go. To let my seed grow.

Unhindered, without the angry intellect of mine. It could be contagious, the anger I mean.

But, like any other writer, one needs the love of a woman, not a cleft, mind you. And something tells me that, its not going to happen, through my life.

I dont like compromises, why should anyone? And so I sit here, punching maudling bullshit out, full of self pity and realizing that nothing is going to come out of my punchings. Gawd, I have forgotten how to write or to affix a signature on an instrument that's negotiable.

The BPO after effects are to be seen. They have shorn the social fabric of its foundings. everywhere you go, its fucking clefts, with the saccarine, dulcet voices. I hear them in the Coffee Day shops, the lunch places where these clefts work.

They exchange boyfriends, not notes and husbands too with a wink and a nod. The male homosapien has been overtaken and he hasnt realised that in his ego-filled mind and will not too, for quite sometime to come, till the day he really cognits that his role in the world, even today, isnt the pprovider as stated, but as a provider, of the seed, and nothing else.

Someday, this world will cry out for re-population. Remember me, then. I have enough to seed them back, idiots.