I don't negotiate with theorists.

If I was as paranoid about computers as I believe myself to be, then I would not confide my fears onto my keyboard. I'd even watch what I said about computers when in their vicinity (and whenever are you now far from a computer?). Who knows what they hear? They have all the power now. The question is, do they know it?

The oldest proffesion is the only profession.

Beautiful women rule the world. Always have, always will. You might as well complain about the weather.

Lines are lies.

Seasonal seething, a pattern you're finally noticing, but you could see it in hundreds of pages of notebooks scrawled over the decades. In the spring you go beserk. Red storms of rage you can restrain but not ignore. Your limbs shudder with holding it in. You want to explode into a monster, a blur of fists and feet and pain. You yearn to avenge ancient insults. You want to break faces.

What triggers this? What you see of yourself in others?

Is personal property theft?