i shut down for a bit. tsunamis, hurricanes, earthquakes, viral pandemics and wardances.
i felt my self obsessed art as therapy was a cheap paperback novel. more boo fucking hoo in a world that was burning, i was pissing in the wind.
tomorrows bright star burns a hole through my shades. i sit in the dark and read. in one eye and out the other.
it is the mimicing of a process i see humans do that seems to relax them. i am bored. i hate the written word. i hate art. i hate culture. i am laughing.
broad untrue generalizations make me happy. somewhere in here i am dancing.
as what was russia decays into anarchy we are only a few dreams from a nuclear mistake. chips wear out. no one fixes them. hello? are you receiving?
is anyone out there really? i turn the page.