I live in confusing times. If you can call this a life. If you can even these years, months, days, hours, seconds here "time".
No. It is a psychodrama without the drama.
My existence is confusing in that, well, in that I am confused.
My goal--which I keep close to me, which allows me to hang precariously on to my sanity in this place--is to escape.
Escape where is easy to say: away from here.
But is that enough to sustain me?
No.
Which is why I write this expose' about this confusing place.
Yes. I am obliged to go about my job as An Object of Curiosity while at the same time secretly doing my job as an agent for the Descendants of the Eye-Nye-Habs (The Anti-Snailians) while living in an atmosphere of fear, boredom and unproductively. (While also harboring my own compartmental plans to be rid of this isle.)
Alas.
This is not something so easily brushed off.
No. It is a psychedelic life without the benefits of psychotropics.
And I often become confused as to my purpose and and and . . .
Well. I am lost once again.
But I shall bravely muster onward, fighting (like a snail) against the tide of this tideless place: Soybean Island.
The End
Goodbye from Soybean Island
