---zing.!? what's left?

what happened to liking music? passion died, or that's one way of putting it
romantic action ranked out... yeah

words fade quickly, almost immediately

doesn't matter what style, what reference, what nod, echo
fade out - maybe not enough fades out... what could be phased out...

warmth coursing through, a bit of synthetic warmth, heating oil, but not hard - on -

stymied -
not for others
okay

full of knowledge, knowledge pouring in but doesn't wanna be received - still cold - cold hands -
doesn't matter what song, can't choose anything
can try and be entertained by other people's manias, but try and appear cool about it
not caring, but i do care about it
but, patient zero... is...
i don't know
dissolving

don't care about the new albums, not following, nothing worth following
lost identity
symbolic, but that's just noise
it's just noise

future course, barring a miracle
frozen language, meanings, head full of not much, mush
synthetic phase out course, committing to a course of slow death
really slow death, leisurely, in a way, like mint-flavoured zyklon B

string out death long enough and it gets practically palatable
a grainy strain of smeared out like stretchy taffy
why bother to construct anything? unless there's
money in it, to keep a cycle of finances and expenditures going
cause that can feel good, almost, sort of

envy for the people that can have a good time, in the full on kind of way, with all manner of intoxicants - but not poisonous, that's too strong a word - and still - cold hands, damnit, and...

envy for...

what is a thing that doesn't work? i don't understand its workings - it's a downer - a deep hole, a cavern without a tavern, a dry dry storage area - for waiting out the clock, working out the clock, then waiting again

some make more sense of it than i do - it gets nonsensed up in a nodal cross-section of the brain which likes to construct unsolvable riddles - recycled for use as song lyrics - some successful language makers, hegel and philologic writers getting lots of book sales and led zeppelin association


I don't know what to do with this iteration of life. Could feel it, perceive it, passively consume it. What is the point though? I dunno. Want to rhyme, pointlessly, in warmer iterations, righteously, joyously, but that's a drowned word, so abstract, like rusting pieces of the titanic on the atlantic seabed...

What's this gonna achieve? I dunno. Super-intelligent mush said that. Making a hash of things. A mushy hash. Almost reminded me of a time I wrote a line and was gratified. That time must have been a cross-section of booze-fueled attitude and the passive feeling area that wants and has, when dopamine and seretonin are in balance, and everything's good, just works the right way.

But again, what's this gonna achieve? When there's no right music, even lite jazz to make it right, everything's just wrong. Delusion flaws ballooning in size? Or something else, I forgot. Gotta let it go to shreds and feel good about it. Rationalize the unreasonable, with every layer of possible criticism like the entire atlantic depth pressing on the head - pop up somewhere later random

not enough random - wrote a letter to her about random number generators - well, ran out of fuel, have to switch to renewable resources of life-loving stuff, whatever that is - force feed flowers and birds - nah, that ship sailed, that trend is irreversible, barring some miracle. See, patterns?

Warming the hand. Can't achieve critical mass. Wry write about it, through it? Be content with thoughts instead? Wait a second, diphen slurred thoughts? that sweetens the deal - the goal should be dreams anyway - they've been good lately, like nearly always - the flipside, a little crack but if that was absolutely all, it would be enough