The Twin Gears of Cringe and Cling

Donating. Actually doing something - an interaction - over the web - financial transaction, christmas shopping, or sort of gesturing to christmas, spastically, like a pitied invalid, broken toy, haha, whatever.

Musical guest: whatever your favourite band is. It sucks. I can barely rouse a care about bands anymore, anyway. 

Yeah, don't get sucked in... by stupid bullshit like that, pretend words have no power, not that type of power, not that kind of magic - back to strip-mined culture. A synthesis. Now a theatrical antithesis of dead. Now too outside, as if that ever meant anything.

All that can sustain life is the mere presence of making it another step without cringing. Well it's something, as if, a subroutine, a side-quest, not the main story. Clinging, or cringeing. The two paths forking from the straight shot tickle to send the rest packing. It does sound better when it descends into nonsense. It tastes better too. But most importantly of all, it sounds better because it's music. It's about not being enough of a virtuoso to know which ways to waste and which ways to want. And being beside a WantMonster. Paying tribute to a colleague. And connections fraying infinitely from that. The barest of tendrils like a tiny rope of jizz off a cock. Stretched over an abyss. Sweet abysmal malice or friendly pussy. Gotta be a rock in the flow. Erode around.

Like a, Like that article, definitely.

Desperation, CLINGING, chasing security.

Desperation, lacking security, CRINGING, the sublety of embarrassment, rather than shame.

 

I've tried to tell myself I was punching up before, not as in afflicting the coMfortable, not heirarchy-based class-conflict in words, but the kind of punching up where you're crafting a bit, to be funnier. That kind of diamond drillbit. Playing of light across an overconfident perspective, thinking it was cool once, now caught in the twin gears of cringe and cringe.

The saw teeth sawfigures of rusted out basements of the heady sensation that things are so fucked up and fucking up in a cascading way, but not finding paranoia very fun, making do, wasting time with discussion of drugs.

Under the heavy sedation of life... it's not music, except when it is... When it can roll, into a cradle. And definitely be a part of that deja-flow. You know? You bwad bwad bwoy?

Is a certain popuri of posturing intubations of what fills a dead space between two massive chapters of crusted ebbelience. Like it was inexplanable, inimitable, a gratuitous grace how it donned the syntax of its age and just accepted gifts of forgiveness. A thing called righteousness. When he asks himself what to do in the mirror, demands that he, himself, tell himself, what to do. That's freaky. Begs for his life at the end. It's sort of satisfying but unnerving, when you're that far up the ass of a bubble dimension that exists to Johannson strains?

It needn't be though. It needn't be freaky. If it had the right key to the right lock, it would fucking ROCK, but it won't. So deal. So die, or live with it somehow, but don't look at me, to me you're like somone in a "somebody else's problem field", so yeah. That's my monologue for you today, sir. It's borrowed bits of paradigm from dxm cruising. That's the word I could have used, bruised, self-abused, but useful to myself, idiots. Cruising altitude, like Michael Brooks in his late TMBS era [], cruisng in stride between pretty plateaus, hefts of flour, seeds of plains of maybe it's not the end, just the end of a horrible unnatural cycle and a new era of disease divine kings, rightfully ruling, presumably, syphillically, because mightfully ruling, literally. Exerting might for the monopoly on force, to rule. So, this paradigm feeling natural, in this exegesis, where my fingernails are too long and I feel like I'm tapping with talons on a tablet, like as hateful as the living tripod creatures, moving with calculated swoops in on low insect protein source food routines.

Seeing city lights stretched from end to end of horizon, and yeah, I could, I should, keep going, but I can't, I gotta end this side-quest for now. Heh.

The saw teeth of saying something, for any delusion that there were hallucinations beside you, on your peripheral, when I talk to you, when I try to make something from nothing, like friendly ghosts on tropanes, who seem nice but then they disappear which doesn't seem as nice, sometimes it's knocking on your doors in your dreams for centuries cultural hangover kind of thing in a situation where tech just paradigm slurs every stata of understanding over each other, like it's a rich flavoured gravy of mores, but on the other hand, nevermind.