I just read something that made me want to cry. And on that note, I now have to write my paper.
I’m pretending that legally purchasing music was a good idea for my bank account. I certainly don’t have morals to watch out for.
I expect to see snow but we’re marching toward winter again. Not there yet, should we care? Who is this we anyway? I’m the only one here, only one here and awake and why should I be and why am I and why can’t I be allowed to sleep. And it’s cold, so cold. Always cold. I want to scream leave me alone, but I’m not being haunted by anything less than the apathetic air.
It’s the blue of the icebergs, so painfully bright that I know it’s toxic and I hold it closer and it’s toxic and warm and warm icebergs are melting everywhere the Siberian permafrost is destructing and we’ll all die, suffocating on our collective selfishness and greed no, carbon, because there is enough food in the world for everyone and technology to transport it the spirit of generosity is one in which I do not partake ignoring the bells of discrimination once upon a holiday extend yourselves further please and you may know The Light though who the ever-loving hell knows what that even means I can see clearly my eyelids are closed.
My heart may one day stop working for its master and who could blame such a thing for being what it is an obedient follower to the drum beat brain that I am victim to having been attached to that I am that I can never not be without an ice pick kind of protection from sentience and aren’t they always reticent in the end because they are sorry the drumbeat has stopped it signals to their own mortality of music that we must take a breathe and there will be silence
The pig’s heart is the closest to our own, the lungs of a lab rat, the brain chemistry of perhaps the chimpanzee, a cousin we cannot admit We are a meshed mix of fucked up evolutions because how did we ever get out of the jungle looking like we could only hang onto our life by an obvious tree limb, legs trembling? And we are here, concretely cocking up everything because it was too easy to be able to breathe freely and lead is pretty poisonous and everything else in me, outside of me, you and everyone else. You are my poison, you are a pillow in the dark of the night pushed up against my face because no one ever chokes on fluff. It’s our fuck ups. But the pillow was part of the plan, not mine the plan of someone else who does not care for its extra firm hypo-allergenic qualities and so I will die with my mouth full of dust mites disturbed by the destruction of the world. I will admire my eyelids as I have always done in the dark and when we are shrouded in more motes floating freely my hair will be tangled and caught halfway around my neck I was naked and there are love bites ringing around where a shirt collar could be discrete
And how the hell did this become sex, it did and it didn’t need to be done but then that’s always the motive, and I want to sleep beside myself, be beside myself. Of course you might make it all metaphors, but I would that you will not. I want to slip into scalding bathwater I want sleep let’s sleep together in a way that’s comfortable and leave it at that because I can’t comfort myself and I want to held up and away from the mares of the night. Can they be elsewhere when I am beside myself? No, I summon them with these insane ramblings. Why must we do this when there ARE other things to be done, unsticking what is stuck- the caps lock key. Unruly, truly, eye rhyme and rhyme being a word I‘m not quite aware of ever spelling as an English speaker needing to know how to lie about the language and with it, it ought to be seemly, serenely spacing out everything equally. It won’t be because I hate it, knowing that I am manipulating far less skillfully than anyone else who has ever bothered to have a bout with complexity- and ailment that I might recover from if only my blood could keep from going cold.
The time has come for weird writing. Or sleep. There are no other options.
Stonewall Jackson, who knew something about the use of weapons, is reported to have said, “When war comes, you must draw the sword and throw away the scabbard.” The trouble with television is that it is rusting in the scabbard during a battle for survival.” —Edward R. Murrow
Fucking fascinating. Like, you have no idea.
Cetearyl alcohol, sodium lauryl sulfate, stearic acid, etc.
I’m sure all of it will eventually kill me/give me cancer.
Sometimes I hope that all of us humans kill off each other, because we’re dumb and fucking up the entire world.
I’m going the fuck to sleep.
I decided against it.
I never went to bed and it’s 6:40am. I’m going to go take a shower.
So yeah, a ten page interview. Getting right on that. Right now. At this exact moment.