a shout out to my parents – and my sister - i hope they don’t read this blog:
you are so sweet and pure – it was a long while before i realized how rare that is – i’ve always had such support, a kind of support i can’t put into words – you deserve more than a fucked up tweaker
wise move huh? go and get addicted to K - wear some trendy hippie headgear - do so much of it that paranormal perception lingers - worry about brain aneurysms and chronic depletion of dopamine and infection and cancer - dare i even say the word - i'm getting superstitious - i don't know what luck is, where it is, if it exists
i gotta say, i understand what people were saying before, advice and warnings i shrugged off, paid lip service to at best, sacrificed at the altar of self-delusion -- i still find temperance and moral fiber in bad taste, not cool, not stylish - and that's a problem, cause i'm a sick fuck
- i guess this youth rebel stuff is getting stale - but what to do?
anyway, i'm sorry for being a wastoid - i'm starting to understand, a little more, what it looks like from outside -- when i actually get around to working the actual steps of the program, i'll make sure to make amends, where to do so would not cause harm in and of itself, to paraphrase step six, if my swiss cheese short term memory serves
36 hours of nonstop info-stream from the metaverse - K is the VR drug - from what i remember, it's fun, but i don't remember anything - but sometimes it's fun not to remember things - or is it? i don't remember - but i had fun, as i remember, but i'd have to take a memory's word for it, because this current slice of spaced time is not feeling groovy - not really, nosir
K is brilliantly mind expanding and ruthlessly mind contracting - it grants me periscopes to telepathic portals between multiverse covergences, or something to that effect, your mileage may vary, mine might as well, don't be stupid and buy eightballs every week and use it as multi-purpose mind-dust -- but you probably will just to spite me - and if so, you'd be following in my footsteps - and when i was in the good end of the cycle, a little drop of awareness in an anti-personal network of cosmic cause, i'd say it's so worth it, which is easy to say when time means nothing
energy flows out of something that once seemed an orifice for eating and trash talking - on the other end, on the other hand, in that murky film that was celluloid running my muscles in still frames, i'm a retard, hoisted on my own petard, k-tard, communicating to neo-satient creatures coverging with kinetic consciousness but unable to say anything meaningful, but that's not the point, it's texture, i'm a splatter on the ground, a mud puddle, like you, we're texture, we coat the contours, it's a simile for a life well and truly dyed
texture, like that cartoon that won't stop playing in my head, the surreal multi-media semi-synesthetic flanged framed pastiche of local and nonlocal data stream, that every so often in some absurd cycle shows me exhibitions of dream geographies, of a place dreamed in one dream that connected architecturally, literally and figuratively, with a place dreamed in another seemingly unrelated dream, sinews on substrate, blood brothers from back in the old days, before amnesia
i'm sick and suffering - it could be worse - but i'm sick and suffering - and i deserve to be sick and suffer - but i hope there's some redemption somewhere -- there are good people around me - i can't say that life dealt me a bad hand - but something in me wants to self-sabotage
can't sleep, what's it been now, forty hours? lungs infected, sinuses congested, feel contaminated, rotten to the core, something to be quarantined, cough cough... fugue state - it's a rolling rollicking fugue state, it's a mad merciless forte fugue, firing on all cylinders, atonal counterpoint, except in a certain multiverse cross-index, so to speak
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