I'll bang out some quick text. Quickly glue it altogether with swag. Bang a quick hit of false confidence. Mmm. Feels fucking good. That's how I'm describing it.
Now I'm left, bereft, with an orphan to grudgingly take care of. An abortion that survived. Ugh. Is that what this is?
Could try and contrive a stale utopian fantasy. My own custom version of a good contemporary television series, like severance, for eg. Knowing that that will mean something in the right frame of mind. Could jolt myself into old styles of writing and thinking by dipping into the recesses of my bereft medicine cabinet, help myself, join me brother [], if there's no future, you could spin yourself back into a better time, even though in retrospect, you know it's circumspect at best, most likely completely implicated in being a delusion, bullshit i once said in the immediate aftershock of a salvia trip... some flavour of that - but i'm banging out text and it feels good, so that justifies everything. Fuck yeah it does.
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