So I'm made of stone, they say. They don't, they can't know that I don't eat or sleep and that I might after all be turning into one. They have their "hard" evidence. Far from it, hard evidence is not handwritten. It must be engraved in stone. How Freudian of them. How offensively American. A rolling stone is all I can commit to have features of. But then again, they can't know that. Didn't care to ask what I did just yesterday. Didn't care. What they saw was me spacing out. It was me not curbing my facial muscles. Naturally, all I do must be aimed at them. That's how I live, remember? I'm a walking manifestation of malice aforethought.
Spacing out? Basic knowledge of psychology suggests I'm simply at ease, at home. Expressive face? Even more basic knowledge of biology suggests the same.
Looks like someone forgot stones have stone countenances.
Spacing out? Basic knowledge of psychology suggests I'm simply at ease, at home. Expressive face? Even more basic knowledge of biology suggests the same.
Looks like someone forgot stones have stone countenances.
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