nothing much here yesterday, while feeling the itch I went in the kitchen to look for some completely incongruous, banal object to toss over the cubicle at amul. I saw a loaf of stale bread, grabbed that and stuck in my pocket (there was only 5 or 6 pieces remaining - but nonetheless it still protruded from my pocket like a boner). on the way out, the fanatical boss was engrossed in the preparation for some casino campaign. feeding and sucking my soul for ideas and riding my case all day and afternoon to produce. that I did because he had me. what with paying my rent for the weekly I felt obliged for a bit longer. overload. I had the bread and he stopped me half way back to my cubicle. it was bulging out of my pocket . I had it cocked and ready for amul but I had to thwart it temporarily and tend to bizzness. I held in hysterics. thought of the absurdity of it and everything for the martyr sand snags for centuries. what hogwash. what shit everything seemed to be to me. a farcical existences bred and born slaves and thinking we are free. the loaf of stale bread in my pocket symbolized everything I could not have. everywhere I could not go. it was the artifact of my acceptance for the time, my redolence, my punishment for being alive, for having convictions for thinking this way. that makes me write this. no matter the rules. no matter structure no matter the centuries of cultivating the proper and pedantic manifestations. I could not fathom the reality perched before me. the vulture mocking and bum-rushing my being. somehow, I must now break from this semi-trance to go and see my mother. she is another component of what I speak of. but a bit more complex, I suppose. we'll see if I can resume after returning. after nearly 30 minutes of being plagued by the boss, there was a break in the obligatory (I just thought of new years eve near that hotel next to the hard rock and procuring the bottles. we got scotch, wine and beer. and thinking I wanted this forever. and longing and ego inflated jealousy now thinking that someone has taken my place in that capacity.   why do things trigger thoughts? synopsis.. what?) the obligatory enslavement. that is not a paradox but perhaps a trifle redundant and as words fuel and feed off another. they suck at teats. and I was doing so and that is vile. I saw the break went for the bread now so squished it could have been anything. I tossed it. Amul was an Indian guy I worked with for about 7 months while back in Vegas doing a stint I referred to as "regrouping". One of the ways to distract and satiate my imperious longing for excitement and horseplay was to throw random objects over my cubicle into Amul's. after a while he began to collect them. CDs that I would paint and draw on, cards, dice, cups, printed pieces, stuff wrapped up in tape, balls and chunks of detritus, all a matter an sundry. And then the food objects began. back