My world is a spot. There is a chair. A body holding up a brain.
In the morning, I write, critizing what I read before.
In the afternoon, I read, preparing the critics of the day ahead.
In the evening, I broader the scope, reading more, to know better how to criticize.
In the night, when the last stream of conscious passes by, I wonder if I should criticize it all.
I feel like a brain, but my brain feels like running a body sometimes.
However, I am too tired, and I give up, I take it the way it is.
I critic, thus I am, or at least I try to be, sitting in this world-spot as critic as I can be.
In the morning, I write, critizing what I read before.
In the afternoon, I read, preparing the critics of the day ahead.
In the evening, I broader the scope, reading more, to know better how to criticize.
In the night, when the last stream of conscious passes by, I wonder if I should criticize it all.
I feel like a brain, but my brain feels like running a body sometimes.
However, I am too tired, and I give up, I take it the way it is.
I critic, thus I am, or at least I try to be, sitting in this world-spot as critic as I can be.
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