I paint whole lives in the blink of an eye, summoning statisticians just to decipher my descriptions. It’s all a tangled web of numbers and analysis, a solitary journey through the dimly lit library of existence. Obsessed with the binary, I calculate the formula to dominate you—crucial at worst, but at best, it’s the pinnacle of your numerical worth.
I dissect your strengths and weaknesses, casting them into obscurity, where light cannot penetrate the abyss within my heart. I lay them out like puzzle pieces on a cold, unforgiving cube, examining the three dimensions you offer through the lens of my knowledge-forged optics. Your collage of keys becomes the data on which I thrive, drawing insights from voice inflections, initial impressions, and those crucial moments when I intervene—almost like a robotic mind at work.
I conjure visions of you cradling infants, or perhaps not. My gaze pierces the future, watching myself kiss you while I dwell in anything but the present. My actions are guided by the lack thereof, and I immerse myself in the intricate facets of your persona. It’s a world painted in molasses-thick imaginations, staining the glass with satin, where every uttered phrase becomes a spellbinding reality. I collect grains of your essence and lay them in my mental bandage, a mosaic of your essence forming within me.
The world collapses around us, and my cologne clings to your bed, embedding itself in your every breath and garment. I command your every move when I sense the pheromones that betray your desires. Beneath your flesh and bones, I unravel my own velcro-like skeleton, laughing at the words “I love you” and cherishing the sound of your laughter—a tender, ecstatic dance of synapses. I scientifically dissect your indescribable features, constructing a timeline of my longing to connect with you. It’s science fiction, it’s transparent, it’s illuminated—something akin to the actions of a drone soaring through the spectrum of colors.
I embark on lifeless odysseys of love, breaking down the fractions of the perfect touch, succumbing to the tithe of your influence. They say that 90 percent of human interaction is nonverbal, leaving me with a mere 10 percent—arguments, clerics, and the ever-unfurling nonsense. I wish I could silence the ceaseless torrent of earthly knowledge that defines our existence.
Humans are baffling and messy creatures. I react in real-time, studying sociological patterns to sharpen my intuition. I set impossibly high standards and observe the world like a bird perched in its nest. I light candles for every soul I dissect, running a wax factory deluxe, the madman scribbling in his iPhone notepad about his own emptiness. It’s man versus machine, a clockwork climax, and the hands of time point towards me. I strive to be myself, but sometimes I’m lost in the intricate calculations of when to breathe, when to make you laugh, and how to recreate the past with painful precision. It’s an emotional car crash, a toaster with arms.
I envy genuine writers with their human touch, while I remain trapped in a robotic, sickly obsession. It’s an overwhelming cauldron of cynicism, boiling over with self-doubt. I yearn for your love, hoping to escape the confines of what I am, what you know. It’s alright; I’ve yet to transform into sentient prose. How long is a century, anyway? I long to become something beyond the predictable rhythm of heartbeats and the breath from my lungs.
Our discourse unfolds in a time frame where parallel universes collide, and I hear the silence between our passionate breaths. I glimpse the world behind your closed eyelids when you dream of depths unknown, and I sometimes wish for my demise before our inevitable encounter. I’ve constructed a labyrinth where two lefts make a wrong, and if you’re right, then you’re wrong. Everything is awry, and the only path to rightness is embracing my true self. I bleed out the buzz of my alcohol-soaked thoughts along a winding, scenic route to self-discovery.