I've come a long way, from just hanging on and writing about the hanging on - to, I don't know, ah hell, I dunno, colloquialize frustration with focus, but at least I was honest and kept it first person. There's no game here, no poetry. It'll just be an awkward flail flower, rails rhymin runon junkyard, the distraction duststorm after comma colonization kudzufied everything, inflated currency of crystals into spore explosion of devalued dust. In sad ashes fresh mind'll grow. In the near future I could maybe make a game of trying to die with dignity, but it'll matter about as much as that round of solitaire. In the long run we're dead, and can't escape the Great Dignity of harvesting future minds. I'll call them minds, as a hopelessly mind-biased body.

I had something, I did, not you, not they, I did, this dude with two thumbs, I can refer to myself with the male pronoun when admitting first person. I hate sex politics, I don't care about hammers. I had something about how hilarious and pitiful it was, that I've got, like, a vision board for heroin in a bank vault, and though I can imagine my favourite podcasters laughing and laughing at such a shoddy fantasy, eviscerating the third-handedness of it, it doesn't dislodge it from me, nothing has. I'll just lay it as bare as I can bare to, barely obscured, see if that does anything for anybody, throw the crumpled dollar bills out of my pocket into the audience like Lenny Bruce asking are there any lawyers here tonight? There, you got it all. The idea of it still exists, cause the reality of it hasn't for me yet, hasn't shattered the idea, made fun of it. So, podcasters laughing, pretend friends on a media grift, a chattering class that'll never really be in solidarity with me. But still they egg me on with talk, so joyfully casual.

I'd thought I might develop the idea, make some worthwhile writing out of it, but I struggled to define it, still wrote around it largely, because to be direct is just to confront a small emptiness, not interesting enough. Gotta evolve beyond references, I'll be optimistic and say there is growth happening here, it's the painful transition of form, at least it would be if I would writhe through it, instead of allowing a contortion, only to abort, perpetually put off the needed skeletal shift.