between convulsions

Something physical? Something physical? No, that won't work. Transcription? No. Sensory overload? Yes. With margins of radioactive waste. Energy with nothing to do. Empty. Still thinking about chemicals. Nothing else. Trapped on the chemical level. Nausea. Didn't Sartre write about that?

To try and clarify further gakked-out gruntings: I still feel empty, but now I've got energy. For no purpose. Sunday afternoon. Went for a walk, drank a double Americano. I fretted about whether to say that or not, because when I talk about what drugs I'm doing, it just brings me down, pallors everything with SICKlight, hypercontext, what nobody really needs to know, what I know too well.

Finally I decided I might as well say it, if it comes to mind. Because that which RESISTS, PERSISTS. State bounded, like a picked-on child, bound to a toboggan with duct-tape, bound for the innocent victim ring of hell, sledge-ride to the mentos minty aftertaste of oblivion. The victim with his brains on the library floor, killed by someone less picked-on than him, unpigeonholable sociopath. Gus van Sant epitaph, what does the Elephant symbolize? That guy truly is a filmmaker for our times. OUR times, this collective clashwork. Threads, stitch, syringe, mundane death on morphine drip, yes I know how sick that sounds, wheezy poetry, cheese-doodles, sketched out, chocolate-glazed fun-sized elation in a short hourglass, bite-sized bliss slipping through my fingers. What am I going to do with this? Sell it to some sucker, sell myself as a trend, as a friend, as I want you to be. Publishers jonesying for novelty, eventually they'll get to me, I'll be ready with a massive shitpile for sale. The new aesthetic will wrap around my moldy fuzz contours, I'll learn how to hustle myself, saturate the market, we'll form a partnership.

I'll get a good hookup, the most refined euphoria yet, nearly 100%, Peruvian, Moctezuma's stash, brought to me by contemporary human sacrifice, arms and drugs and leg-humping thugs, amphetamine cruise control, my sure and steady hands at the wheel, to die with rignity like Leary on the internet, like L. Ron sea-orging the circle of death, atoll sci-fi themepark, Costner optioned, an offshore community, dianetic house arrest, voluntary, straight man in a straight jacket, straight shootin' son of a gun.

Necessary evil, necessary percentage. Twitchtime, time to drink from the stream, it's the only option left. Oh stop this sick septic simulation of schizophrenia. Goddamn, what does one do with empty energy? Meta-crack's in the past, but the echoes come out to play like the cliché of haunting children's skipping songs at the site of slasher sets. Enlightened at knife-point, nothing hackneyed about the first stab, although by the last, I was rather droll about the whole thing.

The whole thing comes down to a paradigm slasher, it cuts values to ribbons, blows stars into fairy dust. A chorus of Uncle Daves broadcast to the universe, glades of saved waves, informing the vacuum, complaining, energy, empty. Stick a pitchfork in me, I'm done.