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Semana Santa

Bursts of self-induced orgasm woke me up from the verisimilitudinous nightmare that I, even at the topmost edge of defiance, fail to extract from the overlapping memories of the same kind of verisimilitudinous, tangible being when awake, as tiny specks of dust nonetheless with a sense of entitlement from the world around us. Even at countless repetition of announcement I still only remembered the occasion partly because; a) there is no class, and b) seemingly every single pawns within the realm of my social network greets with joyous pardon the same kind of action they do when the religion demands it to be so. And as my orgasm waned at the worthless thoughts, I diverted my thoughts into more practical matters worthy of my procrastinations, and so I lingered and rolled in my bed for almost seemingly an hour doing nothing, thinking of devious plots to master deception at its finest for future references or just make myself a late breakfast at four in the afternoon, not minding the two girls with me whether or not they share the same enthusiasm. One girl left with a broken smile, telling me that thesis was more important than a cup of bullshit excuse for a tall tale. I wouldn't mind, I myself am a busy bum, touring the world with wide-open goals of megalomania and a penchant for despair. The other was lost from the eye, probably dozing off somewhere hidden beneath the sheets or at her own comfortable loft, probably brushing that long pigtail of hers and fixing the eye shadows that mark her early grave for pregnancy. I might as well make best out of this Easter thing even without the bunnies and the chocolates, for the clash I had with God sooner made its way faster than any Energizer bunnies could after that.

Easter Christian, the time has come. I'm the only one to say okay. But I'm motoring. Yes, I'm motoring. What's your price for flight?

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