It's the stuff. It's all the stuff. The endless stuff that smothers you while you sleep so that you awake with a start, gasping for breath. The duplication of stuff that you already have; the stuff that you didn't need, or really, even want, to begin with. It's the stuff that's made cheaply somewhere else and then brought here. You are made to want it, to desire it, a need that almost causes pain. A deep, sterile, pain, throbbing; a longing, a want, a desire. Sometimes, its almost sexual, this gnawing need. No matter where you turn, or where you try to hide, it always comes back to the stuff. The endless, mindless, stuff. The itch that can't be scratched. The want that can never be satisfied. The stuff.

Stumble It!