% 1
i keep avoiding it like the plague. i dont want to even look at this beast of my own creation yet i create a log about it. it makes no sense; why must i make no sense?

reconsidering, perhaps the beast is not a beast, and i have it wrong. perhaps the true beast is the brain virus instilled upon the masses. i must recover in the coming days or rot alive.

!!2
as of tomorrow its been a week. given a second chance to recollect and cure the plague within, i refuse. why? i dont want to refuse. i'm afraid this monster within has eaten into my very cognition. for this i wonder how to proceed, the treturous path of uncertainty presenting itself. i fear the worst, the sickness eager in its sickening support.

he could sit in nothing but on the ethernal void. can forever really be a long time if there is no medium for the time to travel? a rotting corpse retains its bones, as this man stays to face a void. the future is now, yet in this time lied an emptyless void.

the brain of rot

!@3
week 2, day 3, begins to near its end. here i stay sit akin to a new bag of sand..
the worst part of this day is the next. i will have nothing to show for yet again.
"then just finish the job, stop sitting like a duck." think me these thoughts while still avoiding, fuck fuck fuck.

the thing is, every time i start i get distracted. "why write long essays of topics i find avast mid?"
my mind just wanders as though within a pest. "you know whatd be much more fun? looking out at um- west..."
i jest, but really, i must confess, the truth. i am pressed and a goon. undress me you baffoon. and a spoon.
it is just too far gone, he must be fed the food
run oh run my henchmen. dont be a homeless brood.

!#4
the unlucky number rears its head, and ive decided i will not be bread
avoidance is easier than facing reality in its godforsaken bed
and with another cycle, the pattern of a decade continues
this begs the sitting question, is it pattern or just a mere method
habits make us, and bring us down
how can it be blamed, how, when it doesnt control what destines plow
and like stale chalk bread it sits, like a rock or crooked stick
made from yeast to grow, aid abade of pastries? no, just you stow

and as he seeks the clock for answers, the event had just begun
yet the time she still just goes and passes, as it would for anyone.