trilobite

a spot of trouble resistant to the effects of industrial detergent and somehow inconcealable. it's just as well because a giving over and a spilling out and a drawing down -- something for combating the endemic -- all seen in the contours of every skiffed interaction. it's not really welcome but no one shut the door and it can just walk right in, and whether any regard should be considered in light of the lack of anybody being home is just really an afterthought. you're like, you know, in a cataclysmically hyperbolic state of panic and its cool because most everything else is boring or is at the least distressingly monotonous once you convince yourself that everything else is distressingly tedious. it doesn't even feel good or bad because you're too numb after subjecting yourself to a five hour documentary played on a reel-to-reel upside-down and in reverse (maybe, it's hard to tell based on the content) of a pachyderm unrepresentative of its species and unrepresentative of things categorized as being perceptually comprehensible multiplying exponentially through a process harnessing the errant thoughts left abandoned which didn't even make sense when whoever wrote this stupid fucking script decided they were just gonna subtitle all of this nonsense as a narrator track to some ridiculous visual garbage that you've been looking at on something passing for a screen because, fuck, isn't it hot outside?