President of Vice

muddled, so sa so mu-muddled - all i can think to do is write and write, even though writing feels bad and muddled as well - so often it's exasperation and desperation that move me to write - maybe it'll feel better later, maybe it'll seem worthwhile - material and words are dark magic at the moment, a lot of trickery i don't understand or care to

but i get cool shivers here and there, those are nice - they're like the woodsprite matrix, those cool shivers - the fairy dust that exists nowhere except in this ultra-rare limited-edition cerebral cortex that i wear like a fashion statement - only in there - it's a neurocortical pathway in many dimensions - when the subject thinks of the woodsprite matrix, it shows up on brain scans the same way as optical information received through the retinas, only dimmer - like an imprint

i need nice things very badly now - people are nice, even mean people are nice in their own way - should i kiss the viper's fang? material isn't so nice, but it could be kind of nice with some spice - it's something tangible anyway, when living in my head is so torturous

i've got a killer idea for a drawing though, i want to follow it through - it's what i need at home, a window into another world

can't stand some of these conversations i hear around me - such immense possibility, to get involved with people, and yet, the frustrating implausibility of it - i can't get in there, i won't bother - i just want to lie down, i've done my time - this computer is so slow - the duck is dead - the party's gettin' low rent