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Peyote Soul Ramble a soul is not a thing to be made and played in a card game against Buddha and lords, nor does it exist if metaphysically termed to death, and then we butcher ourselves with intangible notions and emotions why don't we find our soul, maybe we killed our soul, or if not then it doesn't exist; actually one would be hard pressed to find his soul chip on demand because humans are delicate computers and they scream if opened to be tinkered on - unless you got drugs. Ergo you only find soul with drugs? Peyote-whacked American Indians could tell you that. What we want is to find ourselves so we narrow Ourselves until we're squeezed out and we've Got a label. Here's mine: intellectual. So maybe we shouldn't play games with ourselves and wrack and cry and sigh cause we don't know why or who exactly we are? We may as well, what fun - sledding down neuroses and flinging ourselves across synaptic gaps, playing Parcheesi with Oedipus, but fuck the brain cause we got heart which isn't a computer but why not claim it as a victory anyway? ah, glory! ah, whatever! ah, love! ah, poetry! All of these things are meaninglessness but here's what isn't: electricity because electrons, them things is really small but where will You be while they're still rolling along? In the belly of some worm, that's where, and not even an important one at that. But here's what humanity has provided you with, so that you don't have to fret: the copper wire of society, so that all you have to do is disturb your environment and this impulse rolls along the cord forever and ever and ever.
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