Long Live Extinction

Walls of the Underground

I like the eyes of people who have erroneous ideas about anything about life. I face them with fists and danger and chain them under my bed for laughs. Am I talking about ideas or the people? Or am I talking about the greatest of our creations (us, as in, I am part of a race I despise but whose accomplishments I like to claim to guarantee my significance) which is the written word, the book which I hold?

The words spoken, however, are the most horrifying things you could ever imagine:

“What do you know about love? What do you know about life?” they say to me. “All you do is read books.”

“Only the most bearably important,” I answer, ambiguously wittily.

And when others mock me for holding out to the most outdated of tangible concepts, I instill in myself the greatest defense mechanism that ever triumphed: an…

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