Bored

A grayish/white billowy matter floats in the sky. Like tissues, or snow that doesn’t fall. I want to sleep in the clouds; live in the clouds. My happy place is in the clouds, I close my eyes and think of anywhere else I would rather be that where I am. The first thought in my mind to everything; clouds.
It is thought to be that a god controls the atmosphere. A god controls the earth. A god listens to our thoughts. The older man thinking about his daughter, sexually; the cheating wife; the serial killer that always gets away; this god knows all about it. People are like masturbation; pointless.
The thoughts composed in my head flutter about like butterflies. They are content and homely, but they have no attraction. I get lost in my own dreams, I get lost in my own cubicle. I obtain everything I can think of and hold it in like constipation; I guess you could say metal constipation. Writers block would be nice to have.
I shift my head to the right and glance upon the clock. About four inches to the left of this clock is a red smudge. It reminds me of Australia. Warm and humid, here I am smoking a cigar, sprawled out on the beach, drinking a drink of choice. For miles around I am alone. The vast landscape of trees, canyons and the array of sunshine fill my eyes. My eyes are like overflowing cups of coffee. They it spews over the edges and steams as it burns my face. It is almost impossible to keep this all in.
Here I am at work in a cubicle, staring at a red smudge and imagining another dreamland. No one looks at each other. When we talk in this office we look directly in front of our placement, never glance in the eyes of your opponent. The clock reads a story; an unwritten story. From the time I clock in to the time I clock out. Life is hell, and I make a hell of life.
What does crow taste like?
Where is Bosnia located?
The American family sits down to dinner and talks about their day. “Fredrick today was fantastic!” Martha is a whore. Perfection is a dream; families don’t sit down together at dinner. The boy sits in his room and does god knows what. Dad watches TV with a personal table to hold his food. Mom cries to herself in the bathroom. The girl cuts herself. Real people are garbage. Fake people are what everyone dreams of. Perfect body, soul, and mind are nonsense.
I am John Denver, I am Martha Stewart.
I am who my credit card says I am. 
If I could toast a piece of bread and butter without smearing little crumbs all over the counter I would be happy. If I could get to work I would be descent. If I talked to my mother once a year, I am caring. I don’t want to be anything. Moods and feelings are essential, but voluntary.
We are in mass population. We are at war with ourselves. We are in a state of depression over nothing. We are to self conscious. We hate ourselves so much that we love to hate one another. We are so horrible that we can’t even trust anyone. You are too afraid to get in the car with a stranger because they might just kill you, you are too afraid to open your door at night because someone could stab you. What has come of everyone?
As soon as the Roman Catholics decide to put a condom on the during sex sessions, I’ll do my share in helping the world. Tell the pope to rub one out once a week, tell the president not to be so gun happy, and forget the east. The world is like candy. It’s a sweet place to be, but it’s bad for you, don’t digest.
The red smudge on the wall is time consuming. I look at the clock again, four hours have passed.


Damn