23: 28.

Too. many. grey. areas.

Too many.

Objects are seen as shapes, colours as varied greys. Muted the emotions but no less their strength. My head might spilt from my mind and its kamikaze thoughts.

So much are just a chasing after the wind, there is nothing new under the sun, meaningless meaningless, so much, so much are meaningless. And the dog freakingly returns to its own vomit.

I am a stateless desperado, nope under no one's window, just writing my own dispora of a distopia. I feel honestly stateless at this moment, nationality and identity based on geographical boundaries fluid or simply non-existent.

Is there something I can do after spitting out lyrics to Creep and Sexed Up, trying to remember new chords on my Epi?

Every thing seems to be either a containing or a detaching, the former more than the latter. The normalcy of life birthed from structure.

Language, the words I speak, write and think in. Could they be guilty of containing infinity?

After all, when the inventors of this device I type on called it a laptop, they forever limited it. If someone else in some jungle saw it for the first time and called it something else, they will be "corrected". All that infinity of what it could be called, and with every name, a different feel, connatations, implied character and traits, every. thing. limited.

Sigh with me. Every thing's a contradiction.