hobbit hd

and no, it's not high definition, just median grain digital concave, custom skin map, a choice only i would make (the only choice i made) in an era stacked with potential, a mumble of individuality and consequent harddrive flickers, fleetloop shortcircuits so no, not high definition, not that kind of aitch-dee, rather memory-storage, randomly-accessed - but it's not a hollow drive, it swells, it's swell, the only thing that's well, so draw from the drive, might as well, groundwater bitstock, drygoods, bichromal code from this or that, instagram filter /sarcasm

posting links to things i like, as if i'm so gleeful about them i can't keep them to myself, gives the appearance of pep - betrays for a brief moment i did "like" something in an eff-bee way, and if you string fifty likes it could almost make a mardi-gras necklace that distracts from the fact it's weeks out of date, a hangover immune to healthy choices

what a strange feeling, like i'd literally shrunk - surely this fence wasn't always this high, or am i really that short? not just the normal short, but did i shrink? are these lilliputian hallucinations? they've got a negative slant, but it's still vaguely fun to feel any hint of altered perception, for no particular reason - feeling ridiculous out for a "run", for no real reason, other than, i guess i should do something like that, after being inside for so long... running, it's supposed to be good for me, i guess, as if there's any general rules for health, but i also can't say that any convention flouting i'm doing is doing me any good either, there's still the gut-rot and only noise, no body sense i can tune into as an alien homing beacon pointing me back to that extra-solar world, so...

go for a run, then, and walk back disappointed there's no runner's high, what's so subpar about me i don't get rewarded for running? and feel worse, if anything, after the running of the human, and wonder about sadness to where it becomes so abstract i'm not sure what i'm wondering about anymore, so subtle in a macro-philosophical sense where all ninety-nine atlas pages of my awareness occupy the tiny tip of a cold iceberg that cares nothing for the chip i comprehend, and then sadness in the concrete, the so-concrete-it's-scary how chemical structures prefigure my oh-so-important emotions, and what i think are thoughts are the shapes of molecules locking into larger polymers or more likely shearing off the vaunted keyholes by blunt mechanics of misfit dynamics still too fine for me to get a handle on as they happen between picoseconds

but i feel a little more normal size when i reach my staircase and normaler still when i'm back in my hobbit hd, so now what, back to a wiki-hole? then stutter to sleep at a time i didn't plan on

expression is so neat and tidy now, so much so that i write nothing for not knowing what's apropos to write in this place or that, except when i do this - there's always this, at least, when social media fails my contemporary oughts wants - who cares what you write anymore? not anyone in'm'circle, returns have diminished  but what d'you expect? it's just the way the curve parabolas like a poorly-thrown boomerang, still expecting responses from years-old paradigms, the world's moved on, it doesn't work like it did in 2004, or even 2008, which had its own grandeur - maybe some people younger than my spirit are hitting their own grandeur years in a phase-transition i can appreciate, still running a deficit - as

i self-consciously research david foster wallace, a wiki hole, articles, the guy named david pope who should be a household name cause he made nine million and counting selling real estate on the moon, for real - but there's too many amazing amazing just amazing stories to pay attention to them all or even any of them, i guess i'm bore-able, might resort to electro-convulsive therapy and then the resistant to-treatment crater, cliff preposition

as depressed as i sound in a reverb chamber, i'm sometimes amused with how concentrated it can get, the stack of lament under compression, wavehammered feedback from first principles, like line noise amplifies via itself, itSELF to a crushing extreme, meanwhile, hidden faces in spectrograph glyphs for gearheads

so much depends

on this voice i can't figure out, but refuse to refine, so, digital whine, drink til yer blind, abstain and edge toward death by consumption anyway from eating void - peak void - must have reached it, can't possibly continue to use that word - no fun, but still alive & sloplit