the worm fairy

in the ice-worm orgy, i just don't know - cause it's so glacial, the jest of the high sample rate - like there's anything to sample - there's no higher consciousness, just a lower consciousness, and maybe there's an aggregate outside but it adds up to planet-sized apathy - these are the times that i write, in ninety-six thousand hertz, i wouldn't type in any other context, it has to be the best, and anything better i'll define away to nonsense

i'll defend my ignorance, not yours, and not with a gun, but passive resistance, a lazy passivity, it's not a religion, i'll pull the lever that blows up the perimeter shallow charges if the alternative suggests, no, demands the certainty of getting up when i don't want to - it's not sweat that i mind, it's not blood either, really, that red stuff makes me feel absurdly stoic, it's easy to bleed a royal flush

waiting to see what motivates me, i could guess, my education's good enough, it came to me in an indian life, ah, so that motivated me, that knock on the door, the sleeping sickness hasn't yet progressed to that impasse. Pining for the dream through a bedtime story that's an allegory, afternoon nap for your crack-addicted kid, scored by aphex twin, the synth isn't him, he says, he thinks too much, my anthropomorphic ignorance says