Dear Memory Erasing Itself,
You can see me, right?
Between the war on hokum and your neon grip silhouette, tall pink shadows collate humane gels.
Consistency is the universe.
Consistency is the universe, though I will not eat marmalade.
We’re a generation of men raised by women from which mold has been removed. Is another woman the answer we need from the surface?
While my batting average is extraordinary please ask yourself, after this war on hokum does your story need goblins? What does your company really stand for? Sconfitto, but figuring that out is essential—here’s how.
The large hands of Maurice Blanchot are here with us sketching in neon: The struggler against paper walls. History’s best alternative clawing at imaginary walls. Desire to eat own tail again. Consistency is the universe of short live streams from the toilet, and I’m a stone-cold snob about it.
I notice my arm shaking arterial spray all over the imaginary walls.
Kurt Cobain died seven months before Guy Debord. A danse macabre daddy’s body in the other room ripped from the headlines.
Ripped from the headlines.