Something insists that I continue to focus on all of this, this stuff out here

Something insists that I continue to focus on all of this, this stuff out here. It’s madness. It’s like returning as a ghost, to a town you once knew. Everything you dreamed the town could be, it now is, but none of it is for you. Something else insists that I don’t get too attached to all of this, this stuff out here.

I have this feeling that if I could make my mind and all that it contains as crisp and need as the rows and columns in a spreadsheet, I would rule the world. I would have order where there is chaos, memory where much has been forgotten. I would run rings around every single human being who relies on the nebulous shadowland of whatever consciousness amounts to. No amount of recording what takes place in my head can ever approach the power of having the stuff in my head easily accessible and viewable, when and where I need it to be.

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