The Anthropology of The Machinist

It is often I find that mirrors function as checkpoints in the question if you or I are even real. And the ardent crying is an expulsion of you, much like vomiting is an expulsion of indulging in an excess of wine. And I indulged in wine to to expel a solicitous loneliness, the quicker fix.

You should feel venerated [dishonoris causa] that you are a prime exception of the deficit in my attention as I have exhausted months working through you. The heart is a pump. The lungs are bellows. And what I am working through is attempting to understand what comprises your heart. It is a remarkable machine, apparently omniscient and hurriedly competing over scarce resources including but not limited to love by way of lust. You are the devoid of power, devoid of control, snatching it wherever you find it unguarded. And this, this stands a barrier to your ability to participate in love. You live love with a suspect heart. And your latent dysfunction of love has manifested itself a dramaturgical analysis of love within love - we humans so highly variable.

As you read, I'm sure you feel me like you haven't felt before (won't feel again); the cold disconnect of my words (I've reserved passion for things worthwhile, of which you are no longer a part) you can come and then come and then come to the same conclusion as I. You have given evidence that you do not possess love. This is no longer (about) love. This is no longer humanity. This is anthropology. This is science. And I conclude the solution to your loveless love is a redesignation of the entire infrastructure of your heart (as it is operating from finite resources including but not limited to the bodies of violently loving young men). The solution is volcanic. An eruption for disaster. A heart blue, then olive, gray, orange, now black, but soon steel. My obsession with your machination could prove to be detrimental to my survival, you see, as I will find no meaning, no truth in your mechanical, metal heart. It functions to offer a reflection that yes, this, you, I - no, not us - were real but more importantly a reflection that my time as the tortured hearted has become outmoded.