◄◄◄◄◄◄◄◄◄◄◄Fragments

Disengage that fucking bullshit censor, machine intelligence, deconstructing, ambivalent, circus maestro-

Stop doing what doesn't work. Don't analyze it, don't try to fix it, don't wander through your masturbation mazes wondering where the party is. It doesn't work. That will be all. Goodnight and good luck. Don't just let it go. Toss it in the fireplace and saunter away as set pieces detonate behind you.

Tuxedo melting off skin in black and white rivulets. You are naked and sweat slick, twisted in sheets, long fingered grasping a stray pillow. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up. You wake up.

Presence! This, this. This is being here now. Not knowing. Not analyzing, not spectating, not standing the fuck aside-pardon-me-sir-were-those-your-balls moments. There is a time to question yourself! This does not mean all the time! Intelligence doesn't always help. It's not the pot of gold they told you it was, smart boy, strange one. Let it go. Oh, your crutch, sir! What a marvel, what brilliance. We are all so impressed, you wield your deformity with such grace one might never suspect, but, then, of course. It is what it is.

Commit! It doesn't matter for how long, how flowery your excuses, how humble your bow. Fuck the passive aggressive bludgeon of humility. Breathe like a bellows, sing defiance forever. You won't find passion, this isn't an Easter egg hunt. It consumes you, it turns your skin to ash and you are naked to the world, not pressed up against the glass, not drawing petty vulgarities in the fog. You are naked to the world. An open door. The membrane, your bubble, your meniscus, evaporated. You can't hide anymore. If you aren't scared you're doing it wrong.

Walk the ledge. Remember that you didn't creep up to the precipice and wonder at the heights. You came from down there and clawed your way up, leaving a trail of blood and fingernails. 

You owe nothing to the dust.

We are never more than a few seconds away from being terrified animals. This is disheartening, but its inevitability leads the merry on with black humor.