Whoppers and Roundhouse Kicks

I was in the middle of a horrible english homework when I felt fillernotebook-y that I forced myself to log in.

I have just realized that it has been two weeks since I made something out of my subconscious sphere.

As much as I missed doing so, I also longed for a deeper and darker fulfillment.

The thought of breeding cockroaches in a water jug was being conceived have I not thought of that being really unlikely.

And a plan of executing the next three generations of such pests was being construed have I not realized that it would be seemingly impossible.

Pretty.

Now that takes care of number one.

For number two, how the hell would the teacher expect us to attack a question without its back being visible?

And why does number three have to be only a little less different?

Bah, I believe doing this is nonsense. For what it's worth, life revolves around something more intricate than transforming into a vermin or taking away the sea.

As the general miserably exhorts his efforts to rejuvenate a futile nation, and as Gregor's attempts to communicate with his sister results to a big sham, we are inexorably drawn into living with threads of fantasy.

What's just awesome's that weaving them is a step out of reality, but always a leap ahead of surreality.

There's no such thing as magic.

Everything's pure and distorted logic, bred in our minds and nurtured in our hearts.