Self-Ashtualisation

Dream’s lucidity cannot be priced or prized in so far as enlightenment is to concern itself by being too concerned with all those expensive feelings that cannot be prised from my tight fists, feasting upon your treasured robots.   ‘Intention is everything,’ you say through your remaining robot, not looking me in the eye when I confront you about your stale hypocrisy that tepid heart toys me in its touch engrossing itself in the game called ‘still caring’, pretending, not caring that I have stopped putting a price tag on your, in hindsight, not quite expensive, copy-pasted words.   Solemn still waters in that preserved, artificial self energetically claim that every time you say you believe in me, I am right to believe that you mean it, meaning irrespective of the untruth, you demand the benefit of my, not quite doubt, out, so I won’t accuse you of causing me unduly pain, shutting me up in the most efficient way you can think of.   ‘Show me th