It scarcely resembled anything hinting at form. I'd been carving or scraping, scratching, stabbing at it - this bit of compressed, bleached dyed wood-pulp. I hadn't the foggiest what it or I for that matter was attempting to convey and every failed approach made to discern it failed. I prayed for guidance, crying out in a lying wail 'How the hell should i know? What is it that i'm really going for?' Not as much of a what, but more of a why. Why was i going for?, i should have been asking or is it be. I'd nailed myself to the wall, as it were, for if one were to actually nail oneself to the wall he would be no better off than that fellow who shot whatever length nails into his skull with a pneumatic drill - but that's an explanation that need not be made. Funny thing, those little gobbets of unnecessary drivel, put to paper or binary in the form of alliteration so the scrier or typist might feel better about their knowledge of the world and its contents. How the hell should I know what's to be made of this nonsense - this ever all singing/dancing/blinking/beeping/crawling muck set to illuminate for discerning mothers as to what their children are up to. Put a chip in them, like your fucking cell phone so that your government reject GPS might make you feel more comfortable in a world that's out to get you. Go for it. Soon they'll have to change the metal detectors in airports, just watch: all the silicon, platinum and lead, implanted into children ("all the" - geez what an old timer - they're mere flecks of gods-know-what that will send signal to the mothership)... ha, and there he goes again. And she quipped from the other room "What're you doin' in there?"
How the hell should I know?
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