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My life is exceedingly good. I don’t care
when referees fix games. I stare
at newspapers. I read the far-away air.
I don’t gamble. “Yes? What do you want?”
is the way I respond to the world. I don’t do
a lot of things which the talented do—
who get dragged into dionysian schemes
which shorten their lives. Lurid dreams
of things done strangely by businessmen,
who build clanging music and now try and do it again.
Failures. The new fads are crushing the old.
My record collection? “I’ll give you a penny.” Sold.
People hate that music now. They once died
to hear it. My life is exceedingly good. OK, businessmen lied.
The games were fixed. Nothing was true.
They argue over lists. Nerds. What do you want me to do?
Salesmen descended on the greatest nation on earth.
What do you think the apocalypse is worth?
The business leaders are plotting harder now.
Death, I heard, is the latest cash cow.
The death of cows, according to government leaders
will make life better. I got it. Understood.
Jealous because I have it exceedingly good?
I’m too happy. I get it.
Give me your idea. I’d like to pet it.