Sever the Saccharine

Or maybe not. Maybe douse it in alcohol, make a tincture. Overripe, overwrought. But having purpose in some secret chasm. If I can milk the moment, I will.

I've crawled through the mud of jaded glades before. So many times. Is it a random walk? Is it what McKenna called "history?" Just watched a two-hour speedrun of Mario 64. One hundred and twenty stars. Dreamed of crack, like I usually do. The usual metaphors.

Not severed, not cynical enough. I want to pick the vines clean, but I can't find them all. Secrets. Information isn't objectively overloaded, I just haven't grown my new lobes. Atrophy. But I know there's more. Can't be patient. Gentleman caller, flopped the riff, sinkhole, enamel stripped teeth - but not totally ruined. The scrapyard, the starpower in the scrapyard. Run, run, run! Haha. Leave my friends behind, abandon family, bounce to the virtues of the virtual, run the code, run.

Did the tryptamine intercolate correctly? What does that mean for my future? Our future? They said the philosopher's stone is at the top of the tallest mountain. Poetry won't get me out of this mess. I'll pick the vine clean. See if I can see what it means.

When are they going to build the autobahn for the collective consciousness? The internet is supposed to be that, maybe it is. Except it's twisted. Like it's supposed to be, perhaps. Like in my devil gnosis, the necessary evil, the misery I must spread before I shuffle off this mortal coil, plagued kiss-off before the fentanyl vault - the welfare cosmos. Not that I don't see stars on the horizon. Distorted through the jitters, ocular oscillation. But I see them.