don't touch my poodle

sometimes you sit down over a cup of coffee and you wonder, whether the little things which lined up the day were real. you ponder. you scratch your head. and scar your palms. you make faces at the stars. throw bombs at the guillotine. that's how you spend your time over a cup of blue sky and a plate of twinkles. a spoonful of insanity and bonobo.

and then there's people. paranoid. tangled up in their own web. so bad that they misplace words. they fragment memories. and jumble them up into a bitter collage. and in the midst of their dark-room, they hang a picture of you. and break your skull with their dementia. till you are the centre of all evil. and their whole existence detests you.

after rummaging through a lot of fish, the final conclusion - one must learn to strike off. to let go without qualms. to digest guilt. to take small but healthy doses of cruelty. one must learn to harden one's soul. and hand out roundhouse kicks generously. for each roundhouse kick is a cathartic phenomenon. it expunges kilogrammes of useless debris that every human carries. the remains of abandoned solar systems. and planets.

one must walk on. and set up newer and more handsome solar systems. one must kick ass. mercilessly.

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