Project Zeus

A selfish prayer slipped from G major to F minor to E flat/B flat polyglot. How perfect my disgust and lethargy is, I'm told. It's not your fault, ECCO tells me. You're not in charge of the world. You're a symptom. You can't cure the disease, because you're part of the disease. It takes the form of a fugue, it's an offering to the King. It's a humble offering. It sounds proud, it's fine fertilizer. They'll use it for the garden, after a span of time I can't comprehend. Fifty years, knock on wood. The woodpeckers already jinxed things. Many things.

It's RGB on the spectrograph, and a little run, here and there. That worm was never here before. There's a concept album in that. Man is still a rope stretched over an abyss. Here comes another superman, I can feel the vibrations. He's going to give me a back massage.

I think I'm feeling the zoloft leave my brain. I only cut the dose 25%, but already, I feel more myself, and more depressed. Interesting. There's a feeling of deja-vu, a mindstate I know I've known before, but impossible to define. I think I'm suffering mild withdrawal, I'm twitchy and bitchy. I'm getting used to twitching - it only delays sleep two hours, instead of the usual one and a half. I could probably twitch for three or four months. I'd like to just kick it completely, right now, but I wouldn't dare do it too fast. But I want to see what it's like to have it out of my head.

The laziness, the tiredness, fate. It's what was there before the installation of cerebral climate control. There isn't a lot of guilt, just the trivial fact that I'm being selfish and worthless. Taking a perverse liking to my low niche, writing and writing and writing, and not reading my peers - wanting to shirk the music projects, wanting to shut my phone off, wanting them to write me off. Wanting to be a statistic, one of those names on the wall, a monument to greasy machines.

"A one-armed machinist, Schindler?"

"He was a metal press operator! Quite skilled."

Quilt Chat. With your host, Anna Besque. And special guest, Lola Crunchberry. God is a cartoon character. We're taking him lightly. He's got a beard. It's so funny, isn't it? Yeah, it's fucking comedy gold. Something 2003 would come up with, after too much coffee.

What did 2003 ever do for me? Well, 2003 learned to play piano, and got a job, things that had to be done for later advancement up a silly donkey kong ladder on the lower half of the screen, on level 1. I now reap the benefits of this position. 2003 also got some jollies with the opposite sex - that's more than 2009 ever did. It was a lucid dream that became a stately copper-toned status thing. Not much use to me now, though. But it should be noted, for the record, that he did it without anti-depressants, subsumed in that same feeling of lethargic fate. 2009's a fucking disappointment. But 2009 writes better. So fuck 2003 and his shitty writing. There's nothing to be done with it.