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Bastard son, taking pills--has to slow down,
slow down or he'll burn, crash and burn, and only stars get to
do that; he's two degrees left of stardom. Micronova.
Day
job, night job, keeping busy. Fingers tap a medley, but it's
lifeless. He's far, further, farther--too much, and he's laying
drugs on the drugs, striving for hanoi but babel's screaming in
his ears. Can he hear, can he hear?
On his breaks he sups
information, active always active, hemispheres clocking over to
digest the constant data, digest and thread, re-thread, retread
the paths of knowledge.
Normal, anti-normal, it's all the
same--so slow, so simple. He dreams in doppler, symbols
fighting, ripping, streaming.
Has to slow down, or his flesh
will strip, crease, cease to flex--living life in a fifth the
time, no peers to keep it with; a half-man band, genetic freak,
doctors say the drugs should work. The drugs should work,
control the stars. It's chemical, all chemical, genetical,
heretical.
He sees the stars, so bright, so sharp--they're
loved, not understood; mortals yearn to feel the burn, but he
knows the pain, just pain.
Off-days he shoves the pain,
shovels pain, hypojects it straight, CNS, and slows.
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