When you catch your back patio nestled inside the nether end of the floor fan in your den.

Noman isan island and I am noman

How could anyone possibly read the emotion of someone upon whom their expected reaction has already been projected?

I don’t need anyone to recognize the blue glow as Shibuya

Stop acting like you had people. You never had people.

When you wonder if your loneliness quotient modifies the total head count for ligneous visage sightings.

Stop anthropomorphising the people going through the motions of your life.

We only see what we understand and we only understand what we look at.

If we tore our paper rather than cut it, we wouldn’t bleed nearly as much.

When you tilt the machine, that 💩 has to level out before any gets to play again.

When your poetic fart is a No Doubt parody

Don’t speak
They won’t get what you’re sayin’
Don’t bother with explainin’
‘Cause all they’ll hear are words

Life is what happens when your amphetamine salt level just bottomed out.

The Martyr in My Mind

Still fathoming five years actively allowing my insides to spill out into darkness like tentacles feeling their way through foreign soil to tactilely trace the unknown, with all the curiosity of a sheltered child being welcomed into Disney World, without anything reaching out to touch me back.

When the thought of creating makes you sad.

Not sure how to write anymore since one invariably writes for an audience. Seems art is the same way. It is already in my head.

I suppose I could create a sorry-you-missed-me page before tearing the blog down for the random MB help center traffic.

Everything is empty calories. I feel emaciated.

How many more attempts at making a civil war sparking martyr out of some powerless fucker who’s lost every election since 2016 and whose current presidential bid’s been dead in the water since 2019 does our bifurcated information ecosystem intend to foster? Fuck it. Let’s all kill each other.