I loathe the illusion of intimacy, the simplicity in human networking, the horror of human trafficking. The room is intimidating. The hours are disintegrating as the showroom stops advancing, as the manipulation starts settling. I am being placated and not enjoying it. I am obviously aggravated and showing it. He slides his drink toward me, offering a slighted form of chemistry, in attempts to get me talking.
There are good men, born and bred, where others simply portray a version.
I am not a fucking concept but I am getting used to being treated like it while my soul sits low, stirring silently in protest.
Created: May 14, 2010Document Media