I could settle for a Becky.

Vandalizing flock cameras sounds like an excellent date idea.

I have a pretty public life. There’s a ton of myself documented, tons of cringe takes. Most I don’t stand by anymore. Some feelings too, I’d rather not exist publicly.

I have this friend who is constantly in the process of documenting. Multiple websites as well that contain years of creating and attempts at community building. Not to mention more public facing social media. Everything is logged. Every failure, every drama, every triumph, every song, every moment.

I fear nothing is sacred. I’m literally seeing my life building up around me as I grow up and every moment of it is recorded *in* the world. All of it I don’t really control. Everyone around me is making content. Governments collect it. Companies exploit it. Forces I never knew I was at war with until recently. There are fewer and fewer silences I’ll die with. It’s like the constant buzz of telephone wire, 5G and satellites are taking them away.

It’s hard not to lose myself to that infernal buzz. What it creates out of thin air. A beings being of sorts which gets in the way of connection. In every kiss. In every infinite moment. Its hum softly sings.

The worst part, I’ll hear the people closest to me sing it. I want to fight it. Want to believe I can. But everyone seems much happier mumbling the words. Just like me. Self obsessed yet totally disconnected from ourselves. We chant an incantation of unknowable origin until…
I wonder what the suicide rates are.

—-
Us has become a song in the world written by a machine made of sky. So this is why I scream when I tell you the truth.

layer-08-14:12

We create together. Forwards and backwards through time. A single voice. A melody of sorts. For being and time. For ourselves and others. For nothing at all.

Singing beautiful songs and creating together. Our dearly cherished silences. All I’ll remember too is the music. I love you.

Mori and Dori, living happily.

Goyfest held at Agatha sponsored by every single bank.

Telling women I do meth tonight as an occupation whenever they ask. Fit.

If they diagnose me as clinically retarded I’m sure the sun will shine brighter and the birds will sing happy birthday.

I am your animal. Wild at heart and kept in your cage. Made of finger nails and calloused hands. Tight around that wild thing. Ensnared. Captured. Cold. Kept. Tamed.

“You’re rather pretentious and self absorbed. More than a little delusional.”

And you still want to fuck me.

(first irl meet up with a discord egirl) I look deeply, sensitively, longingly, into her eyes. You will never be loved, my darling angel.

“I’m worried cold ass white boy… what if we’re wrong?”


Do not fret my dear Stacy, the world wages war on sensitive young souls such as ourselves. We will persevere.

My relentless confessions are just pretend.

I hate being alive

(On the phone with my wife) I’m tired of compromising. (Turning to my secretary) Sit. Stay. Good girl.

I hate whores who want CNC without the consequences. Totally ruins my vibe.

Yeah, I could make you cum. All I’d have to do is chase you through the woods.

Why do I feel so ephemeral when I pay for your drinks????

It’s not that I read, or do anything intelligent; I’m retarded.

No.

It’s the simple fact that I cannot suppress That Feel.


“That Feel,”

which turns church pews to slaughter benches.

>This sounds rehearsed.

No. I literally do feel like dying when I experience the infinite moment.