god jr.

He was pretending to read a book at the coffee shop. It was something real profound and established, as to his meager angling of the cover served as a cat's hiss or a really bad cough or a middle finger--
But his scorn for the world was eased by tender sips of a sophisto brew, which did not serve him excuse to stop his pretend reading. Inked words latched to some partchment wasn't his fix--not now, anyway. Life sucked and everything was just so carcass and trite and decrepid--

It was loud, the coffee shop, which was distracting, which was comforting. He had keen ears that had such a desperate longing for forms, not only of phonemes and words and sentences, but of pitch and its flux, and the emergent looms of thought of such communicados and their cutesy waltz for salience.
Worlds were debated and shared and falsified between lacquered black tables--oblivions nodded as gesture as lowly empires maintained their reign.
He was a devourer of jumbled messes and affixed befuddling. If there was no covert obviousness, no specters of thought looking to condition him, he could be sole soldier on quest for precious meanings. But he was in a wasteland--a gruesome wasteland of small talks--abhorrant mutant people worshiping triviality.

He sighed, sipped, and drew a picture of a cat smoking.