หน้าหลัก Harassment Architecture

Harassment Architecture

“At a glance, Mike comes off like a 1980s teen movie bully on downers.” - Playboy Magazine. “…Mike Ma bragged about crashing a White House press conference.” - The Huffington Post. Now, you can read his long-awaited first book. Harassment Architecture has been described as an almost plotless and violent march against what the author calls the "lowerworld". Written in many small to medium sized chapters, it's the story of a man who aims to usher in collapse. He's sick on his surroundings, bound by them, but still seeking the way out.

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5 "






I preface this all with a reminder that none of what you're about to
read reflects upon the author himself. The following is purely
For your enhanced reading experience, I have marked chapters and
pieces I value most. It's for those people who don't read entire
books. Or those people who don't give a shit about everything I say.
Or for those who are coming back for more.
They are denoted by a tiny "x" following chapter titles.


If you came here expecting coherent plot or structure, you bought or
stole the wrong book. Hopefully whoever edits this can clean it up a
little bit. In reality, do you even care?
Dedicated to Alex Kazemi, HN; BC, WM, BG, BAP, etc.



At the end of it all, in those darkest of day,
smiles man atop the mountain debris.
He can see the many stars, smell the coming wind,
only now does he know that he's free.

I'm listening to Wagner's Tannhäuser with the windows down,
mostly because I want the people at this red light to think I'm a
cultured guy. A girl of about eighteen, probably soon graduating
high school, pulls up on my left. She's trying desperately to avoid
eye contact and undeniably scared by the atmosphere I've crafted
along this ride. I'm broadcasting this kind of unhinged but handsome
white male wavelength. A kind of manic superbreakdown in
waiting. Hidden behind knock-off Ray-Bans are two tired, bloodshot
eyes. They sting as if this world was a chlorinated pool, and so I'm
made to hide them. She keeps pivoting her head more and more in
the opposite direction until I call her "bitch" at my loudest. Now
she's just nervous-angry. As for me? I look good today, so naturally
the consequence of certain actions is reduced by half or more.
I'm not usually like this. I'm not usually so on edge, so
forthright. I'm not usually exhaling death pheromones into th; e
common man's air. I'm not usually foaming at the mouth. But today,
I feel the blood flowing with a little more ease. I've felt like this for a
while now. Weeks maybe. Months possibly. I believe that my brain
is getting more oxygen than normal. Perhaps it's my increase in both
raw meat & garlic consumption. Anyone else would say they feel

alive if suddenly put in my shoes, but I feel only the polar opposite. I
feel like I am dead. Dead, roaming but not rotting, among this
downward pointed Earth. I'm bound by zero consequence, terrified
for everyone around me. I'm not worried for myself though, because
I'm quickly accepting that whatever happens to me, however bad it
may be, is supposed to happen. Admittedly, this is due to some light
spiritual reading I've done as of late. Parts of the genre are wise,
other parts are horseshit. I've only lightly sprinkled that new
knowledge into my grander worldview. Next step is to understand
my role in this multi¬million-year movie, best known as the entirety
of human life.
I now have the volume turned up to its loudest with the
windows still down because I'm feeling some ancestral renegade
blood aflush. The occasional odd look makes me consider turning
the music down but it also doesn't. I am a violent and screeching
engine, shaking and tapping on the leather-bound steering wheel. On
the opposite end of this geographical location is another me, a
carbon copy of myself, pounding a cow skin drum in the rain. He's
my antipodal clone. Regardless of my new life decisions, there's a
shred of self-consciousness hidden somewhere deep inside me. It
never wins. I'm sitting at the same red light, watching the same girl I
just harassed as she inches forward and forward a little more. She's
now touching the bumper of the truck ahead. I almost feel bad for
her until I realize she didn't reply to my courtship. She truly is a
The light finally turns green and, excitedly, I gas too hard,
smashing the rear end of the Prius ahead. Initially, I don't realize this
until the schmuck inside jumps out and starts yelling over my
blaring car stereo. He's wearing a ponytail and jean shorts with some

unrecognizable band tee. The Mountain Goats, maybe? Faggot. He's
approaching my window, still screaming and so I peel out and down
the nearest right. And yes, I'm not a scumbag, I checked if there was
any significant damage to his car beforehand – there was, that's why
I left.
Do not worry, the whole story isn't like this. I won't continue to
narrate completely standard days. It gets better, you son of a bitch. I
hope at least a few of these words make you want a long walk. Or a
cigarette outside. Maybe you'll start a farm on mortgaged land. Or
maybe you'll start screen-printing tee shirts. The government could
provide you free land in exchange for clams you collect on its
shores. You could bomb logging trucks. You could sell drums of
destroy everything oil. Learn to sculp. Learn to read. Any of these
things, as a result of this story.
There's a concert tonight and the few friends I've got here have
invited me to come out. They aren't my real friends though, mostly
because I can't be racist, sexist, or myself around them. I feel tension
in my stomach when I think about going, but in reality, nothing
about the night makes me anxious. The opinions of all the people I'll
be with and the others around us is completely meaningless to me.
Whatever, moving on. I'm too young to formulate respectable
opinions of the world, so I don't expect anyone to take me seriously.
I'm rambling, and someone is listening, even if it isn't you. That
someone is either more naive than I am, or much smarter and
enjoying the pompous sting. On the record, I'll regret all of this
someday. Off the record, I'm pretty certain I won't.
I take it back — any existentialist concerns I've given off,
mostly because it's so gauche and heavy-handed. I refuse to ingest
that blackest pill. I refuse to push that blackest pill. I also refuse to

associate with queer nihilists who think they know something the
rest of us haven't figured out. Fuck you, you don't. Even if you did,
nobody would care because you're too busy guzzling Sutter Home to
emo rap on the balcony of your off-campus apartment. Keep buying
vinyl, that's definitely a good investment, retard. You read the words
"God is dead," online and didn't investigate its context any further?
That's really interesting and I would definitely love to hear more.
You know what's dead? Pretending to care about minorities, makeup
tutorial videos, talking about suicide, and astrology. It's hard to take
someone seriously when they've become fanatical over something
truly undeserving. You're crying about a cable show? You still
watch shows? You still have cable? How fucking dull. Pick
something with more merit. Maybe get sickly attached to New Order
or emotionally handcuff yourself to a death cult in the middle of
Iowa. For bonus points, pick something from actual obscurity — and
no, not Bauhaus. "Cum is God," also known as "pay attention to me,
I'm a different kind of slut". Kick out your car's rear windshield, tie
a chain around both a lamppost and your neck. Leave a respectable
amount of slack. Drive forward and fast.
Someone I work with told me about this guy from his
hometown who, upset by a breakup, drove his truck into a gas
station pump at full speed while blowing his head off with a
shotgun. Yes, all at the same time. Part of me believes it wasn't so
much the breakup that caused it, but more so living in upstate New
Anyways. I was talking about the concert and got off track. It's
a "post-hardcore, post-rock" band which essentially means the songs
are ten minutes longer than normal and someone with a beard and
flannel will be playing the violin. It's in a bar too, so I get to watch

people pay seven-fifty for a Blue Moon that'll just get dropped when
the tempo picks up. Even-one starts bouncing and into the floor's
black void it will fall. A pool of beer forms around everyone's feet
and by the end, they all sink in.
I don't like the people at these types of shows. Are they all
"nice"? Sure, I guess, at times. But there's a certain aspect to them
that has me constantly examining myself, checking that I don't
become the same. It's not only that I don't want to dress the same, or
adopt the same body language. It's not just the political opinions and
dismal outlooks. I'm just primarily focused on me not belonging
here. I'd much rather enjoy these songs in the dark of my bedroom,
or with my actual friends. You'll now say to yourself "...oh, how
introverted and unique of him to complain about social situations
gone wrong." I'd then ask you to have mercy on my poor soul. Just
kidding around.
I'm at the concert and the concert is full of people I don't like at
the concert. I'm at the concert and I'm smirking in the corner,
ignoring what my "friends" are discussing. Let us picture this. I'm
wearing a level two bulletproof vest under my Ralph Lauren oxford
cotton button down, and already it's almost entirely concealed.
Makes me look slightly more built, nobody's complaining. It also
protects against 9mm and .40 caliber rounds, the only kinds police
use anymore. I think. Over that, a Swiss M65 jacket, littered with
pockets, all of which I custom fit to hold the six magazines
accompanying my short barrel rifle, a gun small enough to fit
perfectly along my back while still under the coat. In the pockets of
my Brooks Brothers slim-straight khakis are a switchblade and one
smoke grenade, reserved for either my entrance or exit. I still haven't
decided. In my waistband is a...

...and then two squad cars skid to a halt outside. I see them
before they see me, as the front windows are tinted in my favor.
With a fresh magazine, I aim and shoot at —
Someone shouting playfully in my face has yanked me back
into the concert hall and everyone is alive. Here, I and my sorrows
stand. Alone, brushing from my shoulder the shattered pieces of a
black dream. Of course, it's only a little alternative humor. Dark
jokes. New age comedy. Nothing will actually be shot up by me.
"You want something from the bar?" the girl as me, smiling.
She must be one of my "friend's" friends because I do not
recognize her.
"I don't drink, thanks though," I reply, nose upturned.
She smiles and nods in a goofy manner, then turns for the bar.
I turn too, confusedly, back towards the stage. I try for even a short
moment to ease back into that violent daydream, but it has passed
and with it my desire to be here. Faking for this long has left me
emotionally drained. Complaining for this long has left me drained
as well. One of these days, I'll form a pact with myself — no
complaining, ever. Each one costs a lashing.
The drink-retrieving girl returns to our little powwow and she's
asking me where I work. I lie to her quietly, hoping the others don't
hear and correct me. Drink girl now believes that I'm big on Wall
Street, and I have learned that she's going to veterinarian school.
Actually, she may have said nursing school. Every whore wants to
be a nurse. Drink girl is riddled in bruises and ugly tattoos. Some of
her tattoos even look like bruises. It's domestic violence-chic at the

rock show. At this point in the conversation she's expressed a sexual
interest in me, and bashfully notes that she's been "stalking" me for a
while. I excuse myself to the bathroom.
When I come back, the first band has started and the crowd is
totally impartial. It's some local group of dickheads with sailor
tattoos singing about their ex-girlfriends. I spin around to survey the
crowd and accidentally catch the eyes of that stupid fucking girl in
doing so. Not only that, but the band ends their set just then. More
conversation, more of me lying about those generally meaningless
things. She wouldn't be bad looking if she wasn't so bad looking. I
have no interest in this 5'5 dead end and so I excuse myself again,
this time outside. I can see my car down the road and it's calling me
to drive home. I do.
My "friends" are phoning me to see where I went. I don't
answer, and quickly decide I won't be seeing them again. I'm young
and I'm making rash, destructive decisions.

It's another day and I'm in New York City for work. This place
is the type of shithole that would frustrate me into an early grave
granted I couldn't find the words to describe it. A small job contract
led me here, not desire. Looking out the window of this cafe makes
me nauseous. The entire city makes me nauseous. I can feel my skin
crawling with the germs of not just any kind of people, but New
Yorkers — a special level of bad. I space out. Thrown into my own
head, I'm searching for anything else to feel.
I'd like to live in the 1990s. Not the actual 1990s, but the one
that my generation and others have made up. We imagined this

version of it, so heavily romanticized for decades in conversation
and movies; music and art. Many of us were born just short of
experiencing it, and because of that, we rebuilt it in our heads
forever onwards. Capitalism was a friend, Kurt Cobain fueled
already mounting angst among high school kids, and the racial
divide just didn't seem to exist. Honestly, I don't give a shit about
that last part. Whether or not any of what! said is true is irrelevant,
because it's our vision, and so it becomes true. It's our recollection of
"back then," and you couldn't change it even if you tried. People do
try, all the time. Bitter children of the true 90s always twitching to
correct the vision, like schoolmarms or war veterans or something.
They never win. Our vision, not theirs.
We'll push on, tying flannels around our waists, ripping holes
into pairs of ill-fitting jeans. We'll knock things down in the mall
and listen to the new Smashing Pumpkins record in someone's
father's car. Our parents will shoot us looks of disgust when we
come home for dinner, smelling faintly of cigarettes and fast food.
We'll sleep like angels to the sound of leaves blowing down crimefree suburban streets. There's nothing that can touch us; we live our
lives like an old Disney Channel movie. Not even Columbine could
happen here. We'll make out in public parks, steal some candy bars,
and run like someone actually cares. We'll skate past the girls
tanning on the beach. Our hair styled perfectly by saltwater and sun.
Blonde and brown bangs in our eyes. Bodies chiseled from marble, a
result of paddling out into head-high waves and pushing steel around
after school. Sun children with sun skin from sun worship, skin dear
from the same. It's like this forever because those visions replay
forever. It's like this for as long as we want this. Forever.


Well graduate high school, go to university, and marry super
pretty girls. We'll try drugs, and experience those Lifetime movie
hardships. Some of us won't stop trying drugs and die in gas stations
like pathetic deadbeats. Those people simply dissolve from the
vision. The rest of us die of old age, some with grandchildren who
ask us about what the 1990s were like. Some with grandchildren that
know we're excited to tell them.
There was a time when me and all my friends lived in
something like this. It wasn't too close, but just close enough to
where our minds could fill any blanks. That romanticized surrogate
world would leak dreamily into the real. The result was wholesome,
something I think back on whenever reminded. I feel bad for people
who didn't walk away with the same feeling, the same kind of
memories, the same sense of nothing left undone. Especially since
it's not particularly hard to have achieved.
Someone I must have met before walks into the cafe I'm
daydreaming in. I say this because she keeps glancing at me with
what I perceive as hopeful eyes. She's made a gesture towards me
that I haven't yet accepted, and so she floats in that sea of
uncomfortable doubt. Everyone around her watches. I put my
glasses on, realizing now that I do actually know her. I wave back to
signal her over.
Her name is Dolores and I've always wondered why she didn't
use Dorothy, a much prettier name, instead. She sits across from me
and I push down the screen of my computer to see her better. She
smiles, asks me why I'm in the city with a gentle, interested tone.
She has a voice that doesn't belong to New York City because when
she speaks, you aren't suddenly coated in poison acid. You don't
flinch and dodge reptilian projectiles throughout your conversation.

"Just work. Couldn't do it from home, sadly."
She tells me about an internship she started; about how
stressful city life is, about how much she drinks. About how the
drinking is no longer confined to the weekends but now includes
weeknights too; sometimes even mornings to alleviate the
aforementioned. She tells me about her roommate who she just can't
get along with. I nod. She talks about student loans and the political
climate. I nod again. She talks. I nod.
I'm not disinterested by her, I'm just recovering from a rich
daydream of another life. The more she goes on, the deeper I fall
into my own liquid images, more so than usual. This fantasy is
fermented; it digests slowly and without any strain on the system.
You look forward to it throughout not just days, but an entire
lifetime. It's a dessert, dense in both texture and nutrition. A lot of
my recent daydreams have felt like this. Anything can make you feel
full, but few things can fill you without regret.
I pull the conversation to a close. I shut my computer,
signaling departure, and she understands the reason why. I don't
want to make it seem as if I'm in a rush, because I'm not. I just prefer
not to be here, specifically here, any longer. I walk down 48th and
Madison and stop inside a hotel lobby to check flight reservations.
I'm leaving the city because it's disgusting. Did I mention I'm now
crawling with alien germs. I am fucking sick of this place and again
left wondering why I bother coming at all. No amount of money is
worth the visit.
There's something sinister about New York City that I've never
felt in any other place on Earth. It goes beyond the resting heart rate
of panic, and beyond the general disgust. New York City reeks of

more than just hot homeless garbage piss — it reeks of guilt and fear
and so much else. It's a city that dove too deeply, too quickly into
the world of technology and the idea of a melting pot, then realized
how empty that future felt. Occasionally, they'll try to claw their
way back to former days, but can only poorly mimic them. Burger
shacks that rely solely on iPads as cash registers, that cook their
food using intentionally-dated stoves and tools. Manic NYU
students in ugly H&M sweatpants, staring into their twenty-dollar
minimalist salads, sitting uncomfortably at rustic wood tables
(artificially banged up by crafty Chinatown merchants). Every new
dent is another twenty-five dollars onto the asking price. Not a
single smoothie shop CEO bothers to argue. They love the look and
even write pridefully about it in their Moleskine day journals. What
fucking faggots. A city of queers buying anything that looks like it
came from a tree because they haven't actually seen one in a
lifetime. Did you know the trees in Central Park are made of ultradense recycled plastics? That's why they don't break, even when
some sand creature sets off explosives on passing joggers.

Everyone in New York will rave for hours about how much
they love it. Their favorite clubs, their favorite musicals, their
favorite streets to avoid because a friend got stabbed and raped there
last March. If you listen long enough, they start to whittle down into
a much truer form, a kind of terror hidden under giddiness. New
York City's native population and veteran residents are a bunch of
neurotic slimy rodents, one giant gang of life's rejects. Sick and
twisted faggots with nothing but venom in their bodies. The entire
city, in every single aspect, is a grift. Everything is obtained through
immoral means — and not even the cool kind. Jews having ten kids

to avoid property tax, Chinamen selling knockoff designer
handbags, mystery meat CEO creeps atop skyscrapers, thinking
about which forest to next destroy. At least in Los Angeles they
don't try and cover up the vapidity. They own it. New York City and
the rats that nest inside its many holes try so hard to believe they're
in touch with reality. They pride themselves on being citypeople, on
not being a flyover state redneck. The next fifty bombings won't
wake them up and the next couple fifteen-dollar packs of
Parliaments won't either. The people of New York are like fragile
soap carvings and I'm an unexpected torrential downpour. Watch for
streets full of bubbles, and then streets full of nothing, except
remnants of trash. There's only one thing to separate the Big Apple
from any third-world favela and it's perception, also known as lying
to yourself.
The Soho Grand is the latest hot location for the worst the city
has to offer. Shifty faggots, drug addict club promoters, lecherous
`daddy's money' cunts. The main room is easily accessible because
the building itself functions primarily as a hotel. It'd be a shame if
someone went in, undetected, before clubbing hours, and coated the
dance room in AAAAAA AAAA Better yet, coat the whole street,
or city. Cover the entire city in 1:::3 and watch humanity rejoice.
Some people would act upset at first, but after a while, they'd come
to see why it was needed. It's not exactly like putting 01' Yeller
down, but close enough.
Did I mention everyone in New York City has at least one
STD? I'm leaving.



Getting my shit kicked in by a clan of Jewish boarding school
kids for referring to the Torah as "The Elder Scroll". Five or six of
them repeatedly soccer-kicking my back and stomach in 7/11
parking lot. When it all ended, I noticed one of their hats had fallen
off, and so I let him know. "My friend! Your beanie doth fell," and
then they started kicking me all over again. I saw a couple of
ambulances pass by, but they belonged to the local Hatzalah and
would never rescue someone outside the faith. It's okay though; I
stood up on my own. This is the kind of Monday I live for.

Romanticism isn't buying flowers for your girlfriend.
Romanticism is buying flowers for your girlfriends. Romanticism is
your wife admitting to you the rapist roleplay she's been so eager to
try. Romanticism is a gunshot victim dabbing his fingers into the
wound, painting stripes on his face before the medics arrive.
Romanticism is hunting down local Grindr users and beating them
with a phonebook or a sock full of coins. Romanticism is voluntary
celibacy. Romanticism is baseball bat hate crimes. Romanticism is
total debauchery or total anti-debauchery. Romanticism is sex, and
sex is just a fight where you come at the end.
Romanticism could be none of these things. It varies. Maybe
it's just whatever you feel it is. I realize I'm probably mouthing these
words as they cross my mind because thewoman next to me is
moving inch-by-inch into her husband's lap.
What's in a name? That which we call a woman by any other
name would still cause problems.


Now home, in the town in which I live, I enter the 'best' local
barber shop with a mess of blonde hair falling into my eyes. Long
hair doesn't look good on me and I'm well aware. The woman
cutting it asks what I do for work. I have trouble answering because
when she said it I was busy screaming at the walls inside my head
for letting a female stylist touch my hair. Every cut she makes is
another I know I'll regret, but I'm in too deep and I have to let her
finish up.
"Where'd you say you work?" she asks again, a bit more direct.
"I'm in a band. We just got done touring Europe."
"Well hey, look at you!" she's excited about the lie I just told.
There's a silence after this and to her it's probably nothing. I'm
not immune to discomfort, as this conversation and the many others
like it have proven. Maybe she knows I'm lying to her and now I just
look fucking stupid. I might say the n-word, to be honest.
"So, where in Europe?" smacking her gum, making eye contact
with me momentarily. I sigh in relief; the tone of her voice assures
me the lie has been bought.
"Stockholm, Paris, Munich, all those sorts of places. We got
stuck in vampire territory once, really scary — right downhill from a
castle. I could have sworn I saw a man in a cape looking down at us.
He was holding a giant sword, too. Assoon as I told the guys, our
driver got to fixing the bus a little faster. Heh heh. Working in no


I'm thinking about taking the scissors she's butchering my hair
with and putting them through her face. In between vocally guiding
her and telling her specifically what she's fucking up, I was ready to
lose it. The end has finally come and she's managed to make me
look pretty good, not without my tireless help though. I'm pretty
shocked. I'm not. More so at myself for leaving with a haircut and
not handcuffs.
I'm sitting outside on the terrace and an unexpected calmness
washes over me. I'm looking at the trees and the birds in them,
jumping from branch to branch. Looks like they're having more fun
than myself. I'm looking at all of this through a different lens of
emotion and it makes me think about how badly I'd like to embrace
nature and live in its purity. In the same thought, I'm aware that by
the time I've driven out to a sizable piece of land with all the
necessary tools to survive that I'll lose the ambition to follow that
feeling. This limbo between a desire to return to the primal world
and the realization that it isn't so easy gives me a sense of how deep
I've fallen into my comfort zone. Both the Industrial and
Agricultural Revolutions and their consequences have been a
disaster for the human race. At any moment something could, and
should, tear every last possession I have away. What's left is only the
sun and what grows beneath it.
lt's only after you've lost evegthing that you're free to do
At this point, the only resolution is for something to wash it all
away, forcing me into the nearest flush of woods, feeding on the
land and the animals I kill. Wash me all away, and this. How sad is
it to desire such a thing? A system that was not that long ago a
completely standard way of life. There are pieces and places of the

world where it is still so — to enter them as a tainted modern man
though, that's a cruel poison.I return to the happier, more previous
train of thought. The one where I simply stared into the wild and
admired. It's hard to talk about nature without sounding pretentious.
You either start doing it and feel pretentious or someone calls you
such. These desires I have to immerse myself in the ways of the past
world are not an REI commercial. They are not an extended stay
camping trip. They are not temporary.
No, I'm not Thoreau; I haven't exiled myself to a cut of barren
woods and written down my findings. I'm just some son of a bitch
sitting outside his home beside a beautiful piece of property. I don't
care if I'm pretentious. Everything is pretentious when everyone is a
nihilist. Everything is pretentious on the downwards pointed Earth.
Everyone is all rotting and talk. There's no purity left to us here
because the apathetic tailspinners have consolidated life into one big
joke. Sincerity is dead or laughed at. That's why it's so peaceful
inside the liquid dream, the thoughts that move inside me when I do.
There are no twenty-something liberal arts majors to tell me that
what I'm writing about comes off as hollow. They're hollow. Their
personality is the legal intellectual property of a television series.
They are ugly and expendable. They are burdens hiding in clearance
rack mall clothes. They are the rape of the world.
There's a bright green pine tree directly in front of me. It's
almost lime under the spring's honest sunlight, and behind it is
another beautiful tree, coated in white flowers. To someone like me
with horrible vision and no glasses on hand (intentional), the
landscape becomes something else. The lime pine needles and the
white flowers behind them blend into a remarkably soft gradient. An
old friend of mine, one with even worse eyes, told me he likes how

the world looks being visually impaired. He tells me it's like walking
through a Monet painting every day, an impressionistic view around
every new corner. He trips down steps and has to be warned of
approaching curbs, but it's all okay by him. There's things of beauty
where pessimism is displaced.
I'm torn from this daydream by someone peeling out in the
distance. It doesn't take long before I fall back in. Like liquid,
always. Right now, I am alone in this world. Sure I have friends and
family. Sure I have past girlfriends and new sycophants. But here, in
this rift, I am entirely alone and I feel it too. Here I'm crossing
familiar fields with familiar people. Looking up, I notice words
written in the sky:
It's not so bad to be alone. We put too much energy into always
seeking the presence of another. Especially men seeking women. I'd
say it's unhealthy to spend too much time with other people. It'd be
trite to say I wish for a day where the world is empty and I'm the
only one alive; it'd also be untrue. What I really wish for is a world
in total chaos. Perhaps the collapse of humanity as a result of

everything we've done wrong. A world where everyone is too busy
burning to bother you. Maybe I burn too, but it'll be alone.
Our lifetimes are akin to that feeling you get when you're
having too much fun. Too much, too good, for too long. You sense
that something very bad is just around the corner. You know this
because it has happened before, maybe not to you, but to relatives or
someone you read about. The entire presence of industrialized
man has been a violent preface to his looming and inescapable
consequence. The final consequence. I'm not the only one who feels
this way, otherwise Christianity wouldn't exist.
The timeline of humanity, since the last Ice Age, is one long
and wild drunk drive, a kind of victory lap. The moment I await is
that telephone pole our driver can't see. We'll wrap around it at
eighty miles per hour and the bodies will mesh together like room
temperature cookie dough. The bones turn to dust from the sheer
impact; the blood covers every exposed surface of the interior. The
worst part of it all is that we remain completely aware of the pain as
it happens — a very immediate and sensory leap into sin's scolding
hot spring. We feel the steering wheel enter and then exit through
the middle of our spines. We feel the windshield shatter in our eyes,
pulverized into a blend of chunks and sand. We feel the fire charring
off our skin as it litters the highway. I shouldn't say "we". Not me, I
have no part in this. You. You people feel all of this. Maybe not you,
maybe just the others. Me? I'm the lone driver of an entirely separate
vehicle. One who only stumbles upon the wreckage. It brings me to
a blush and grin; I get back into my car and leave.
Not long ago, I read that Christians invented guilt and that
horrible, sinking feeling so often attached. I think we would have
created guilt or guilt's accomplice regardless of religion's touch. I do

not like it. I do not like to come across it, especially in moments I'd
never foresee. I understand the concept of sin, and while not fully
agreeing to the degrees of punishment, I believe it's there. Guilt,
however, I don't know or want. Maybe it can be avoided. Maybe it
can be erased. Do you know of a man who vanquished guilt?
We are the rapidly increasing rate of change over minimal
time. We are the exponential climb towards ultradeath. It goes and it
goes and it goes.

"There are women you can marry and there are women you
can't. The ones you can't are called `thots' and they've earned this
title after emerging as veterans from the battlefield of male attention
and casual sex." I explain to a friend.
"I just don't understand why they have to be categorized."
"It's really simple, there's nothing overly complex about this.
They are categorized for your own good, really."
"I get it, I guess," he shrugs me off.
"Thots are a commodity. They are there when you need to
unload pent up testosterone and, generally, they'll never interject
themselves into your actual life, your actual relationships, or
whatever else. This doesn't mean we shouldn't have a death squad
that rounds them up for execution, it just means we should use them
for what they're trained for until they are gone."
"I said I get it."


"I don't think you do. If we were headed in the direction God
or whoever else intended, they'd be a thing of the past. But we aren't,
and so we deal with them accordingly."
This conversation isn't going anywhere and I've become too
passionate about something that ultimately doesn't even matter. I
still want whores dead, this much I stand by. Again I find myself
alone, only this time it's in a deli.
`Thots are a tragedy of the commons."

I'm a victim of negativism and in that a victim of irony, of
cultural poverty, and really, a victim of the "institution". The people
at the head of all that is evil want nothing more than for me to want
nothing more. They want me and everyone around me in a state of
total indifference. They want us never to express sincerity because
sincerity can inspire revolution. The majority moves left and so do
we. The minorities move left and I'm scared over to the right.
Nihilism and irony are really neat until you're dead and the
only person who remembers you is your weed dealer. Nothing but a
body, only found because it hadn't resupplied on drugs in a while.
Imagine you are given the world only to pretend that you don't care
about it. Imagine thinking Seinfeld is the single best show. This
place is a miracle with indescribable beauty and I can't seem to
appreciate it enough because I idolized the insincere for far too long.
They've trained me in the dangerous ways of apathy for twentysomething years and I want it all to end. Saying that alone is a stand
against it, but it isn't enough. I want to care, more, again. Not only as

my last stand, but because I know the others will follow behind me
if the cause is correctly chosen. I'm worried that everyone I know
will reduce themselves to a shallow grave.
If anything, why not funnel your nihilism into something
absurd and productive. You don't care about this place? Wonderful.
Take a rifle and empty one entire drum magazine into the windows
of AAA. Empty the magazine and don't look back unless everything
in that hornet's nest is contaminated with lead. You don't care about
anything? Let me write a message about something that pains me,
tape it to your chest, and send you into AAAAAAAAA
memorable public self-execution. Let me cover you in plastic
explosives and take you on a field trip to the largest power station in
America. (Please note: Do not do any of these things. Especially do
not cover your face and destroy the many and largely unprotected
power stations and cell towers. Electricity is a ghost, but one you
can catch and kill. Do not do that. Do not become the sort of person
who gets really good at blowing power stations up while never
getting caught.)
I hear that migrants are being captured and sold as slaves in
Libya, right now. It would be a shame if someone loaded up a cargo
truck full of them, armed them all to the teeth, and let them loose in
major cities around the UK and Europe. It would be a shame if you
told these generally low-IQ individuals that killing large numbers of
people would guarantee their freedom is returned. It would be a
shame if you took this same concept, but loaded them into a cargo
plane and let them loose in New York City, in Los Angeles. Let
them loose outside of major news stations and the towers of
international bankers.


(Editor's notes: Extremely off-topic. I know it's your book but
come on. Read the first paragraph and read the last one. Jesus
Christ, man...)
As I said, do not do anything I say during these sorts of tirades.
Believe in something now more than ever, is probably sound advice
`The devil will find work for idle hands to do."

Office building paintings were always the Gap models of art.
Just enough to briefly catch the eye, if that, and never enough to
seriously impress you. Today, staring into one of these, I realized
that it looked a little better. This isn't good. How ugly has the world
become wherein commercial art has

(after what, like half a decade of completely fitting in) now
stood out?
A chilling period to enter.

There's a girl at the counter ordering her drink and she's
wearing a Crystal Castles t-shirt. I love that band, and I'm almost
certain she's attractive. This means nothing though. I see an AOC
patch on the military bag slung over her shoulder.
My generation has no Vietnam. Instead, we have a million
individual daily wars, usually of little to no meaning. Today's war

starts here with me realizing that although I could briefly listen to
this girl's boring female empowerment bullshit, she could never give
my thoughts that same light of day. There is no reciprocation, and
that's fine. We'd get along until she figured out who I align with
politically or why the number for immigrant deportation is in my
recent calls list. But the issue stems deeper than just this. The bands
her and I both love lean towards her side of the political spectrum.
They want open borders. They want racists dead. They want
everyone to know that our government is staffed with Ku-Klux-Klan
wizards. There is no place in civil discussion for these kinds of
people. Civil discussion is gay, anyways. That's why sitting on our
hands is pointless. They need to be dragged out into the streets and
shot before they do exactly that to us.
A large majority of obscure artistic culture is dominated by
left-wing radicals. They dedicate themselves to some braindead
cause and the result of this eternal struggle is the latest, greatest
experimental indie album. They pour hours into an instrument
thinking about how the proceeds will go to displaced Middle Eastern
refugees when, in reality, the profit margin gets soaked up by
superglobal megacorps. These are without question the worst
revolutionaries time has ever seen. Kill someone important! Burn
something down! Cut yourself for attention! Anything! The gas
pedal is waiting to be stepped on.
Regardless of all their faults, I still find between us just a sliver
of common ground. They do not, and so this is where discourse
ends. I realize they have the right idea, about just sating anyone who
doesn't mostly agree with you, and I hate back once again. This can't
go on forever. It won't. This standoff can only end in violence.


She finishes her order and when she turns around I smile and
get the same in return. It is in this moment that I feel what just a
fraction of her affection is like. A word or two later and I could be a
'fascist' with a bloody nose and chai tea all over my Brooks Brothers
Oxford Cotton Button Down. Her teeth would look good on a curb.



The year is 2059 and racism is illegal. It 's
illegal but I still get off on it, 1 need it. Eating
steak at exclusive new chophouse, I send my ;
compliments to the chef. I can see from afar
he 's black. My compliments were the nword. The hairs of my arm stand


I’m going to kill myself every day for the rest
of my life

tap water breaks your fast


Oh, I'm sure you've heard it so many times, but the truth of the
matter is this: Not only is everyone starring in that movie inside their
heads, but the movies and other inspirations behind it all continues
to get worse. Maybe there was a time when the people based their
personal mental movie on things of better taste and, in effect, this
made them slightly better to be around. But now, at this late or
otherwise stage in the lowerworld, the characters have all become so
lame. It ranges from bad to worse, from the people who parrot
Disney Channel conversation fragments to the faggots firing off
Reddit lingo and dork-film mannerisms, from worse to horrible.
Frat-flick mimickers, reality television nightmare sluts, action film
philosophers, the drooling masses who dream of their sci-fi
superhero of the galaxy moment. I understand their need for
synthetic 'motivation', that tiny artificial something to help them
mold a sort of identity, but what we see now is just plain bad. I wish
I could say that people were playing out bastardized versions of their
favorite ultra-wild superhero movie characters, but we don't even get
No wage-slave New Yorker dressing up in tights and savagely
beating black drug dealers after sunset. No hyper-dyke midwestern
outcast running churchgoers over with stolen truck painted neon
pink. No super-rapist who rapes other rapists. The closest thing we
have to movie super heroes is maybe school shooters. In reality,
these other people get their fill of "AHHH I'M IN THE MOVIES,
ordering Marvel merchandise and reusing said movie's humor until a
graceless death. The kind of death that in any other time would be
mistaken for a triple-decade suicide.

The people you walk by every day are computer generated
images. They are digitized fill-ins, computer bodies delivering lines
to fill the empty space. Where there's a gap, there may bea guy in
superhero fan gear. Where there's some room, you could find a sassy
black college girl and her gay Latino friend with green hair. Maybe
you yourself are generated by computers to fill the void.
What exactly is being shot, you ask? It's untitled for now. The
movie is shit — too long, too lacking. The main characters are all
dead and have been for the past five decades – although some
believe it's more like two centuries. Where it stands now is poorly.
Consider the whole project a three-legged stool where two have
been kicked out at once. Consider the whole project a once-good
something that lost nearly all that kept it beautiful. Consider that at
one point in the film, only a half per cent of the project, it all fell
apart. Here we are, still recording.
Nothing makes sense anymore because it doesn't follow the
blueprint. No direction, no end in sight — everything is wild and
silly! Women with fingers that fit inside keyholes but never unlock
very much. Pain that sears human skin like thick steaks on high heat.
Weather machines that reopen and stitch shut our wounds
intermittently, all because machines can speak to one another. Boys
and girls, men and women. Someone telling you to hold hands with
the people you hate, forever. A film that once walked and
somewhere along the line stepped into a voidhole. A manmade pit to
catch all possibility.
Yeah, you are in that movie in your head, but it fucking sucks
and it'll never end. We're all here. The casting director blew it. There
is no walking away from the explosion scene. There is no tear34

jerking redemption scene. There is no 'all was lost but now it's
found' scene. There isn't even an end — the director probably left.
Yeah, yeah. Even this book is some kind of role-play, isn't it?
Who am I channeling? What scene or character or movie am I
stealing this entire brand of literature from? What personality traits
am I lifting? What am I correctly failing to articulate, or articulating
just right? What is my role-play most closely sourced from? What
could I be doing better? Who do I think I'm akin to?
If I wrote it all in sonnets, it'd be taking from him.
If I wrote it all in free-form poetry, it'd be a little too close to
If I sang it from a window in Paris, someone would call me a
We are some many millions into this and you are asking me
not to take a little from here or use a little from that? At this point,
the building blocks look a lot like the other building blocks beneath
them, and those before them resemble some others until forever.
Maybe I'll read the entire Western Canon to ensure that my every
word is the first in print. Maybe I'll invent a new language and say
crazy things nobody ever has. Maybe I'll just keep absorbing new
particles from this and unloading into the ancient template from that.
If I wrote it all in a magazine, it's really kind of this man.
If I wrote it all on parchment, it's reminiscent of that dear sir.
If I said it all to groups of people along the way, Pontius would
hang me up to dry.


People say "damned if you do, damned if you don't" about a
fair share of things. It makes a kind of larger sense here. You'll
always have nails driven through your hands and feet. You'll always
wear the crown of thorns. You'll always get made fun of by someone
on the internet.
To some words are currency, investments. Who knows.

A room inside the ocean at night. A ceiling just above its
surface. It is pitch black aside from a single sea-green light on the
bow of an old and creaky wood ship. It howls every time the waves
shift it. You're laying twenty feet ahead of it, affixed to a bed that
moves also with the waves. Below you is the ravenous sea, dark as
anything could ever be. No explanation, no method of escape,
nothing. This is how you woke up one day. And it's how you remain

The people of now are what can only be called creatures or
demons. These people are not people. Some will say their look is
normal, that it's the result of a lifelong lived, of the regular burdens
— they are wrong. Normal burdens and days of honest work do not
make people into what you'll find walking around here. "Here" is
everywhere, but primarily America. The vehicle through which
Satan enters the world? Myself and many others are hard-pressed to
disprove it.



There's a thought that constantly crosses my mind and it's that
we've all become too self-aware. And then I think about it some
more and I say to myself, "maybe that isn't so true."
I don't know what to believe anymore. There are days where I
feel like I've hyper-analyzed every detail of every individual
moment and the next coming event is my introduction to the creator
of the maybe-simulation built around and inside of me. There's a
striking amount of people who don't understand the science behind
thick girls. Fat is fat, we know this. But thick falls within very fine
lines. It's a product of pure nature, a glimpse of Eden, the sacrosanct
in symphony. When all is in order, the connoisseur could weep.
"Thick ends where fat begins," I whisper into my lap.
I, and many others, have sexualized it too much — there's now
a market for borderline fat women and, in my conquest for the
revival of feminine figure, I've contributed to its downfall. This is
my own fault. Most of the time I'm just tired of seeing too much
hipbone on a woman.
Did you know the CIA put anime into black communities
nationwide? Undoubtedly their largest psychological operation to
date, followed by the introduction of crack-cocaine and World Star
Hip Hop. All of these factors combined leaves us with what we see
today. Fatherless black males, dressed in Naruto costumes, stealing
and destroying things in various chain stores/fast food locations.
Yes, this is a form of acceleration.



What'll it be? How will you ride this life out? Do you work in
what you consider to be an honest trade, five days a week for the
rest of your life, maybe more and maybe less? Do you scam and
grift and steal everything from a world you see as rotten regardless?
What is honest work anymore? Seven months to build a
department store. Seven months of work — electricians, masons,
framers, plumbers, realtors, painters, floorers, upper management.
Seven months after completion, it closes, because nobody fucking
cares about a PetSmart when Amazon has everything and cheaper.
Seven months alongside creatures who snuck over the border and
work for wages so low that even the "good old American" types
subcontract them. There's a superintendent walking around with the
country's flag on his shoulder, watching illegal aliens misalign studs
and door frames — he says nothing to object. You'd get fired if you
ripped that flag off his reflective jacket. He doesn't care; he finds
new ways to shift the blame. He acts like it's someone else job to
smash the windows out of invasive creatures' vehicles. Honest work,
is it? The result is a department store that you were forced to build
with non-English speakers. It closes down and you do it again a
couple months later. We should be building hulking monuments,
statues, places that look good in and out, alongside people who
belong here. You and I were fucking scammed. You were scammed.
I was scammed. But it's up to us to reverse the heavy damages.
Reverse meaning burn it all down.
What is honest work? Selling poisonous food to poisoned
people? Selling useless shit to useless retards? Selling things to
people that then sell those things too? In this moment, the noblest

trade is mastering the art of leisure. I can't think of a smarter person
than someone who figures out a way to rob the modern world blind
and never work again. I can't think of a smarter person than someone
who successfully leeches off government programs, with good taste
of course. The best of all trade work is aristocracy. Our working
class is completely dead inside; anyone who has spent a day's time
around them can tell you this. This "honest work" — building dollar
stores, mall temples, ratholes — it takes hostage the soul of many
could-be heroes. If "honest work" was human, he'd be charged with
many crimes, one of which against nature. God sits above and
mourns the construction of yet another strip mall. It's true, I've seen
and felt him do so. God to me sometimes feels like a close and
personal friend, and he looks constantly disappointed, even in me.
He mourns the destruction of his lush and hungry forests for
GameStop number seven thousand and Chinese buffet number
whatever. Those responsible for decisions like these will pay dearly
for this level of sin; you'd have to be a fucking idiot to think you
escape free of punishment.
All this "honest work" kills beauty in man too. It forces men
into poor diet, poor choices, poor paths outside the workplace.
Everything in life for them, whether they chose so or not, must
revolve around their "honest work". No time to research, pick, and
cook a proper meal so I have chips and soda again. No time to work
out, to worship the sun in peace, to study so I watch television and
jerk off in-between beers again. No time to even so much as
consider another way of life so I hammer nails into useless thing for
useless people in useless place again. You are being scammed,


It's a sin to drown yourself in work forever, unless of course
that work produces things of greatness. Chances are that's not the
Quit your job and rob the world blind, legally if you can
manage it. Honest work here today, in this lower kind of world, is a
spook. Complete illusion. You aren't a better person for making
money in a "respectable" fashion — you are handicapped and lying
to yourself. Honest work is a confused and pointless shot in the foot.
You'll limp home every day for the rest of your life. Quit your job
and sit in the sun every day. Quit your job and run away into the
woods forever. Quit your job and shoot a politician. Escape by
speedboat off the coast of Miami, hide in the tropics somewhere. Do
it again there, speedboat even farther south. Kill your miser boss and
his miser boss and escape using one of their private jets. Go to the
marina at night with twenty-five friends and steal every yacht you
can. Sail as a fleet, down into the southern world, and conquer small
towns. Kill yourself if it doesn't work out. Fly to East Europe and
die in war. Or just keep making department stores until you rot
away, maybe have a couple beers and play a little golf in-between.
Do you understand how many arsonists go uncaught? Not even
close to caught? Just figure out how to do it and start soon. To be
working class in this day and age is to be suicidal and complacent.
Or maybe you just don't "get it".

There's too much going on inside my head. I'm not panicked or
visibly upset. Not ever and especially not now. I don't think I've ever

been nervous in my life. Still, there's still too much going on inside
my head.
I cannot stop thinking about how much I do not know. I cannot
stop thinking about how drastically rearranged tomorrow would be
if I read a certain sentence today. Tomorrow could end with my
mother prying at the hands of the police escorting me to a cruiser in
handcuffs. If I said the right combination of words to a beautiful girl,
she'd lay her head on my chest that night. If I thought deeply and
connected the right pieces I could have government officials hanged
for treason in a public courtyard. If I didn't have anything inside my
head at all, maybe I could finally sleep. I want to know how many
butterflies fly within the effect.
Something happens and the slate wipes clean; I fall tenderly
into daydream.
My arms are resting underneath my head, supporting it above
the pillow. The shades. are pulled halfway and the afternoon
sunlight compliments my torso with some alternating stripes. I stay
like this for a little bit. It's nice and I can forget about everything. It
doesn't last, though. I'm still in the daydream but something shifts.
That blank canvas of two minutes ago is being spun around and
paraded on. I thinkabout what would happen if I actually took my
own life. I think about it a lot, in a serious fashion, but within safe
limits. If I wanted to die, I'd have done it already.
I think about whether or not I've become too pretentious. I
don't care, I've mentally routed this all before.

i think about how writing in only lowercase would lure a
new demographic into reading this book. hello sophia from
new york city. i see you as you open at random to specifically


this page, by total coincidence. it's not coincidence, in reality. i
wanted you here, in this obscure manhattan book shop that
you kill time in until your friend says she's outside. tonight,
when you walk home, ill follow you and catch the main door to
your apartment complex before it closes (don't want to ask a
stranger for the code). ill watch you undress only to stare
disgusted at yourself in the $10 walmart mirror your parents
had shipped to you, at your request. you couldn't afford that?
really? ill watch you order takeout time and time again
because you are far too "busy" to learn how to cook your own
meals. sophia, ill watch you cry over shitty netflix shows. ill
watch you molest yourself to porn you found thru extremely
SPECIFIC search terms. ill watch you spend more of your
parents money on things in poor taste. you were stuck for a
while, debating whether or not you could pull off fake designer
or not. i saw that. you went with the real one, surprisingly. not
really surprising, it's your parents money. ill watch you
attempt a new workout routine, which lasts all of exactly 5
minutes. ill watch you lose a little more ambition. ill watch you
read listicles on buzzfeed, the ones you share with your
friends who don't actually click them when you send it. you
keep doing this for months and come summer they will lose all
respect for you. especially elizabeth -she's not a total normie
like you and she's well aware that buzzfeed is for empty
fuckups like you, sophia. ill watch you for all this time and not




I think about what everyone defines as love. A lot of people
always say it's about forgetting the things you dislike in a person.
That's stupid. I could adapt to anything and so could million other
people. That feeling of a daydream's shift comes once again and I
forget what I think love is.
A few days ago there would have been a girl lying beside me
during this break. She'd coil up in my arms with hair smelling of

expensive shampoo. I'd be worrying that we wasted the day inside
when we could be fishing or hiking or swimming at a lake that
nobody really knows about. I'd resolve this worry by mentally
noting that tonight we get some fancy dinner. That would repair any
lazy decisions of the day, for me at least. A few days ago she would
smile when I told her this resolution. She would say okay with an
excited tone, half-awake, tugging on the collar of my shirt, and then
fall back asleep. A few days ago I would search for a good place to
take her and quietly make our reservations. I'd slip back into bed,
expertly navigating tangled arms and never wake her up. Maybe she
tosses around a little bit, but she's still asleep.
For someone who constantly thinks hitting women, I'm a kind
soul. I have nothing but respect for the opposing gender. Opposite

I aim to construct for you a vision of the world that makes
clear one thing: God cannot be reached, nor can he reach us, so long
as we surround ourselves in the unchecked technological expansion.
From just around the industrial revolution forward, God has been
rapidly phased out by the fruits of ill labor. It only gets worse every
day. Another cell tower erected is another spot in which God
becomes blind. At this point, with the amount we've built, it is safely
assumed that He's unable to see our world at all. Not to mention the
number of other monstrosities that disrupt the once existent state of
harmony. Heaven's Light is snubbed by shields of internetwork,

bluetooth connections, and phone link entanglements. We've boxed
God out, given ourselves strange cancers and illnesses, and become
dependent on something historically and extremely undependable,
unknown — this is the absolute state of today. It burns to exist now
because simply existing here is sinful enough.
It's worth wondering if sin even carries the same weight
anymore. Are nefarious actions against a demonic and upside¬down
world still punishable? And if so, are they punished a little less?
The way I see it, sins are only sins when unleashed upon a
world that doesn't deserve it — a world that you don't want to see
hurt — better known as the previous world. To have disgraced the
world when it was at its most beautiful was worthy of ample
Helltime. But now, when the world is so ugly and itself unclean,
how can you consider action against it as sin? I would go as far to
claim that any action meant to collapse this place sooner, effectively
making way for new life, would be considered holy — maybe even
ordainable by a kind of state-aware papacy.
I don't mean to speak for God, but one must seriously wonder
these things. When you've been starved so long of his contact, of any
sign that he's still holding the mighty ship's wheel, you grow
radicalized (but not always against Him). What do you do when
even the places of worship have become so bastardized and weak?
Where do you congregate? Where do you confess? Where do you
repent? Where do you devote yourself to a life of allegiance to
above? Where do you go to accept God into your heart when so
many have commercialized and uglified the act of doing so? I don't
want to be handed a Gildan Heavy Cotton church group tee shirt as a
welcome for becoming one with Christ. I want to be welcomed by
surroundings that feel as pure as the Earth itself always does. I want

there to be a connection between the creation and creator in the
place that claims to know Him. I want to see the ugly burned out
forever because it's an affront, plain and simple.
It's hard to care beyond this all. I don't want to depend on the
higher world. Nobody should depend on the higher world. Maybe
it's there for minor guidance. Maybe God only helps those who help
themselves. Maybe he's not even there. Maybe the higher world is
simply clouds that sometimes rain down onto us, and that's it. Either
way, I roam.

Following their last monumental album, In The Shower,
Homeshake creates yet another work of greatness. I'm iffy about
even calling them albums, as each song blends so effortlessly into
the next. Appropriately titled Midnight Snack, the pieces on this
record are distinctly about having sex. It all begins with an
introduction called What Did He Look Like, an acid-trip phone call
over leather guitar and simple drums. This carries into Heat, an early
contender for the album's best track.
"All alone and got nothing to do, except to lie awake and
dream of you."
The song sets beautifully the tone of the album, establishing a
necessary sexual tension to be broken, something shattered perfectly
across the record later on. It's about planning the act with your lover.
At least this is what I took away from it.
"She talks to me about heat."


Next comes He's Heating up!, a far-from-ambiguous track
about the ritualism behind the approaching nightcap. Peter saga, the
lead of Homeshake, also discusses here the presence of another man
trying to interrupt the process.
I Don't Wanna is the album's sudden shift. Following a record
scratch, the track tackles the idea that maybe this wasn't such a good
idea. You're left wondering if one of the participants isn't so keen
anymore... but there's a whole album ahead of them. The show must
go on. All is set to return to good spirits, but doesn't. Faded gives us
a small glimmer of hope. The two are still together, likely stoned
and questioning the world, but together in that. Is it enough?
"Baby I don't know what to do. Look at us, it's just me and
We can live with this knowledge, as its progress towards the
bigger picture. Such a strong start means only great things, we like
to think.
Love Is Only A Feeling begins with a sharp, Princian synth
met at the break with classic Homeshake style jam-jazz. It's almost
pretty enough to distract the listener from the further demise of the
protagonist's journey. Like anger, pity, and disgust, he now believes
that love is only another feeling.
A bright, boisterous keyboard pulls us from the gutter. A single
synth and only that under the voices of Under the Sheets. This is the
glimpse of hope we so eagerly waited for in the past three songs.
The night will commence and he's confident that this girl loves him.
What more could we ask for?


Real Love is a soulful testament to the night's return. He's in
the dub, packed tight with women he could care nothing less about.
And just like that, he sees her there. They lock eyes and take a
breath. It's real love. He knows this now.
The album is back in full swing with Move This Body as our
protagonist fights his way through the crowd, sweaty and tight knit.
He's making his way to her to ask one thing,
"Hey baby, you wanna come dance with me?"
She takes his hand. He feels nervous — because moving is
what she plans to do.

The difference between good and bad criminals depends on
how well they were dressed. It depends on what weapon they used.
It depends on their posture, their voice, their plan of attack. It
depends on how they carried themselves. It depends on how they
carried it out. It depends on their height, their bone structure, their
body fat percentage, their haircut. It depends on who their victim
was. Even the very worst of criminal acts are forgiven by simply
looking good. Or cool. Or interesting, in some way.
This is why droves of people idolize certain criminals. The
Columbine shooters, the LA Shootout gunmen, Dylann Roof, Elliot
Rodger, Omar Mateen, Ted Kaczynski, Killdozer, and so on. This is
also why some get left behind, only remembered for the amount they
killed or their embarrassing backstory, like the Parkland shooter, the
Las Vegas shooter, Virginia Tech, etc. Of course, the whole
fascination isn't purely aesthetic-focused ¬today's population will

generally love anything or anyone that causes massive societal
ISIS understands this well, for the most part. A black flag,
white letters in the center.
"There is no god but Allah."
Even in the Arabic scribble they use, it pleases the eye. But
further than that, it's intimidating beyond belief. It's mounted on the
tanks and armed trucks that storm into Middle Eastern towns with
raw force; those six words in white let know the world what's
coming — shameless acts of ultra-violence filmed in crystal clear
high-definition, uploaded for the masses to witness. Executions
portrayed so vividly that the first-world can feel nerves splitting too.
The uniforms don't fall far from the tree. Fitted and sometimes
tailored assortments of digital and desert camo, juxtaposed with
black cloth and face covers to match. Ski masks, combat boots, AK47s, bandoliers of extra magazines slung over the chest. With even
minimal taste and maximal attitude comes pending influence. They
capture not just cities, but hearts and minds. Mothers, children,
teens, fighting-age males, you name it. Raqqa falls to ISIS at night
and by morning, droves of new allies fall into line. They understand
the importance of fashionable terror. They may also be a little
scared. As I'm sure you've heard before, it's "hearts and minds,
because physical wounds heal."
Of course, I'm not justifying the acts of the Islamic State, only
mentioning how a group of rebels and misfits made it so far within a
mess of Middle Eastern conflicts. Fleets of Toyota Tacoma's with
mounted machine guns jimmy-rigged into the truck beds tends to

grant you a little power. Selling gargantuan amounts of oil to Israel
also helps.
Violence without good story or style is barbaric at best. You
can get away with a lot if you look a little better. Maximize looks to
maximize crime, and in that, accelerate better. Consider it
crimemaxing. Next time you are thinking about robbing an armored
truck, put a little time and money into the outfit you'll be wearing.
When the urge to smash every windshield of every car at your local
dealership strikes, tone up beforehand. Pick some nice boots, a nice
mask, chin up and shoulders back. This is all going to be on the
news tomorrow.

Walking past government casino. See flock of sickos dancing
around outside. Talks of they won this, he won that, she won more.
All in golf clothes. A bunch of gopher-toothed golf sluts. Golf
monkeys. Outfits handpicked from the sporting goods shop. I am a
conduit of punishment. Wire runs through me, live and dangerous,
and it bums federal stoppers like sun¬dry paper. I channel high
voltage. When they grab onto me, when they complete my circuit, it
blows holes in their bodies. It blows their arms off, blows out the
tips of their elbows, out their everythings. You might forget reality
but it's all there. I don't trip when I short. I'm a bomb that pops
forever. A ghost that haunts the longest.



My friend calls me and he's drunk.
"Should I start doing steroids? I want to get stronger so I can
beat my girlfriend. Not that I couldn't already, I just want to beat the
shit out of her even harder."
I laugh and hang up. I know he's too drunk to even realize we
were speaking.

Man was once the sum of his choices, maybe the books he
read, or the people he spoke with. Today, man is the sum of that all
in addition to the videos he's seen, the number of people who like
him online, the amount of government-

sanctioned foodpoison he's consumed, and so much more. You
are now, from the start, the death you will become ¬unless of course
you defer to our holy originators. Life's most violent pain is the
result of nature denied. It is the careful blueprint contractors often
ignore, nature. They think they know more than it has to offer. They
think they know how to operate outside its ways. But it will forever
and always win. Submission to nature is one of the only submissions
you should welcome in life.
It's Monday morning and I have been cleaning the house to
loud music. Compulsively. I take off my clothes and get into some
workout stuff. Olive green short-shorts, maybe a shirt, maybe not.
Behemoth playing at full volume. As a warmup,

do twenty handcuffs, followed by Y's/T's/W's/and I's — these
are arm stretches, of course. When I'm good and warm, I'll start
lifting weights. Every day is a bench press day, for the most part.
Often times it's incline, but sometimes it's flat bench. Sometimes the
reverse. I'll switch grips and approaches to keep things fresh, to give
the muscles some form of rest. Sometimes overhead press for
months on end, sometimes only once a week. It's all dependent on
how I feel right then and there. This is liquid weight lifting.
There are days where I don't feel like counting the reps
anymore. Routine is great, but I like to venture out sometimes. In
between sets I will box the air and scream until I'm covered in sweat.
I'll turn the air conditioning off for a little extra fire. More
screaming. Screaming until I can see the neighbors crowded at the
edge of my lawn, discussing my screaming. Sometimes the cops
knock and make sure everything is okay. Never talk to cops.
Additionally, I don't stop moving until the levee breaks at my
eyebrows and sweat bites my eyes. I want to squint and see an
overworked body shine in the morning sunlight. I want to know I've
done something today because it'll eat away at me later on if I don't.
I want to be angry and red-faced in the plank position until it hurts. I
always want a better body. Something something no right to be out
of shape, something something Socrates.
To be strong is to be on the right side of history.
Physical fitness is inherently correct. It's always in style,
timeless and waiting. All the things required of someone to be truly
in shape are all things scumbags not only despise, but despise out of
inability. Inner strength, outer strength, courage, self-control, a
desire to sweat and bleed for results. Your standard worm-brain
faggot would rather stay fat and unsightly than submit to the fascist

creation known as the gym. Strength is imposing and bold, strength
is fascism — I guess maybe they are right about that. So when you
see disgusting pigs like AAAAAA or AAAAAAAA just remember,
they've shown you their hand of cards. Don't be surprised when they
beg you to meet the enemy half way. Act accordingly against the
yeastern kind, the weak, the unwilling. Make them submit. They
must submit.
I shower and it's tough to raise my arms over my head. My
muscles are torn and they will rebuild even bigger than before. I get
out, dry off, part my hair, brush my teeth, et cetera.
I put on my boxers, my pants, my socks. I throw on a Ralph
Lauren flannel to spite the early-approaching summer. I put on my
shoes which always used to be white Converses but are now always
combat work boots in some kind of desert color. Maybe it's time for
Converses again. Then I put on my insecurities. Now I'm leaving for
the store. I need butcher shop meats. Game meats. Raw garlic.
Sauerkraut. Kefir. Gallons of blood. Considering getting some oats
as well, but probably won't. Oats register to me as an anti-nutrient
these days. Your body whispers to you these secrets if you only stop
and listen.
In the car I listen to Death In June's best album, "But, What
Ends When The Symbols Shatter?".
After I get what I needed and head back to refrigerate it, I
decide to stop by my favorite thrift store and get some books. This is
my favorite thing to do here in town. The books are fifty cents each,
a total steal. My goal is to fill my house, wall to wall, with any
worthwhile literature I find there. I'm still not sure if I ever learned
to read.

I'm home now and I'm sitting beside the stack of books I found
today. Four dollars, happy with it. Moments like these, humble as
they are, confirm my stepping away from the tailspinner's void. I'm
taking cod liver oil in triple dose. I'm taking sunlight in like I need it
to live, because I do.
Still, at times, that apathetic claw reaches from that apathetic
dark. It calls out something like:
"Come with me, or don't."
I try to understand life from the void. I embrace it with caution,
one foot still inside the light. I look over the shoulder of whomever
the claw belongs to and see a dozen similar figures in the shadows.
"If you guys don't care, why don't you just die," I shout. "Too
much work," they all reply now — in unison.
"And what happens if you succeed? What happens if you pull
us all down there?" I continue. I'm likely veiny in the face from
screaming and using too many hand motions.
"Whatever happens, does."
I wish I could genuinely believe that God had existed and then
died in this very world. God's death could explain all thedecay, all
the twisted parts and pieces. Suddenly, it's easier to swallow. Maybe,
just maybe, we could all sleep at night knowing that child sex rings,
mass shootings, rampant abortion, and never finding love were
neatly penciled into the docket. Maybe we could sleep at night if
together we understood that God wasn't around to stop the bad guys
anymore. In his absence, evil gained strong footing. Oh well. In that
case, with a matter so unreachably high and divine, man couldn't be
at blame. How can he fix what he isn't capable of fixing?

Long after he's gone, long after the bloated corpse of God has
decayed in full, the angels protecting the Heaven's Gates will
abandon post to watch our mortal world in retrograde. Everything
burns and nothing seems so bad. It doesn't feel good either, because
it just kind of is. What is the death of beauty to those who never saw
it? Monday. And what is the erasure of human life to those who
never valued it? Less traffic tomorrow morning.
The fires will rage for years and not once will someone think
to put them out. At the end of it all, we sit in a big circle and let the
clothes singe off our backs; the skin melts down the bones and the
bones break into ash soon after. "Planet Earth, have you heard of it?
They were a strange kind," the onlookers will say from nearby
worlds. Worlds we never got to explore because ours came crashing
down. And we'd be lying to say we cared.
A nihilist is most easily defeated by his next utility bill.
`I could tell a joke and make the whole room laugh, but I don't
bother. No, I don't bother."

I'm in trouble. An old friend, a girl, invited me over for drinks
and I went. I don't drink and she did, a lot. Next thing I know I'm
tipping a full bookcase onto her and she's completely broken
underneath it. A justified self-defense scenario.
Have you ever seen someone die in pain rather than right
away? They writhe with the most terrifying facial expression. It's
like they are panic frozen. It looks similar to when you bunch up a
straw wrapper and place a single droplet of water on it. I wish I

could describe it better, but I can't, so you'll either have to find out
for yourself or move on.
The bookcase snapped perfectly down the center, vertically,
and fragments of the cheap IKEA "wood" lacerated head to toe.
She's not even crying because the broken ribcage simply won't allow
for it. I squat down, adjusting the legs of my pants, to look into her
eyes. I'm not laughing yet but I can feel it building just behind my
teeth. Then something makes me crack. I'm cackling, then giggling,
then sighing once I realize I'm alone in doing so. I pace and pause.
"Right, anyways..." I tap the bookcase twice and go out the
back door towards my car.
In the car, I think about something — life is just a constant
remembering and forgetting negative things. It is also about spiking
your blood sugar as little as possible. And being in the sun.
Worshipping the sun.

While checking out this job site, a car dealership, I overhear
the superintendent talking with some desk jockey about how the
homeless keep breaking in and stealing material every night. Locks,
cameras, security guards — nothing works. They come in huge
numbers from the woods just nearby. It's a giant encampment of
probably fifty or more homeless people. They've got a stockpile of
weapons and cars, even a couple crackwhores they send out as
scouts during daylight. The police refuse to intervene as it's "way
too dangerous". I wait until the conversation tapers off, til the desk
guy heads out.


"Listen," I tell the super, pulling him into a security camera
blind spot, "there's no other way around this problem besides the one
solution I'm sure has more than crossed your mind. You need some
people to go in there and quietly wipe that camp out. That's your
only way out, man."
He laughs, nervously, and accuses me of reading his mind.
"Is it dramatic? Yeah, a little," I concede. "But it has to be
done. The insurance guys aren't going to keep paying out."
We go outside and discuss a little more, plan to meet at a later
time in a less-watched place. What a world.

"When you are with women, you are alone. When you are with
homosexuals, you are alone. When you are with men far outside
your socioeconomic class, you are alone. You will, for the majority
of your life, be alone," a friend tells me.
Some people are lucky enough to find like-minded men of similar


status. Those are the men that you stand by for life.

The days become a blur during this absolute spiraling nose
dive of a week. Maybe it's been two weeks. I care about things but it
probably doesn't seem so. There's something I'm not noticing,
something I haven't pieced together. It may be something I have yet
to cut out. I'm considering an elimination diet except for everything
in my entire life.

We can't continue consuming the eye, mind, food, and water
poisons of this present world. It cannot keep happening like this. It
really cannot keep happening like this. There's a way out, something
easy or not, that cures us of this all. The cure may not be of our
choosing, it may be forced upon us. Much like how Native
Americans believe the colonists were cursed for building on ancient
burial grounds, I believe the entire modern world is cursed for not
only building over the bones of time since past, but in a terrible way.
There's a curse upon the present for not putting something better in
place of the past. I won't whine to you about what monstrosities
replaced what was once beautiful, what is now a McDonald's instead
of something else, etc. Just know why bad things happen to us now.
You must understand this. It is an explanation strong enough to
displace others such as the death of God, or his not ever existing.
The only way to acquire pure water now is by collecting rain
on Sunday. During his only day of rest, the Lord weeps unto us.

Women never get home gyms because then nobody would give
them the attention they want. The rare few who do build home gyms
will proceed to upload squat videos to Instagram. If you can imagine
it, they will always squat in the tightest pants they own — never a
slightly loose pair of sweatpants, never a burka,



I show up to the bar and my friends are nowhere to be found.
Probably at the rooftop area if I had to guess. I climb the stairs and
see them towards the far corner.
"Hey, there he is!" an unrecognizable face calls out.
I'm not wearing my glasses and I don't know these people well
enough to distinguish them in my blindness. I near closer and all is
well, it's "Dillon". I shake everyone's hand and sit on a stool among
the group.
The conversation shifts rapidly, coerced by the drunken
eagerness of people who read too much Huffington Post. I'm
struggling to keep up and I'm entirely sober.
I catch a break in the heat of debate and interject with a classic
rambling that will inevitably end in dirty looks. They are discussing
the surge of transgender and non-binary people coming out with
pride, saying it's a beautiful sight, and I just can't let this one slide.
"Listen I don't want to be that guy... but I'm not going to sit
here and nod my head while you guys praise mentally ill
transvestites and dual citizens for destroying a perfectly good
country. It's so fucking boring at this point. The arguments have all
been made. The debates have all been had. It's obvious that you guys
are on your side about these things, and people like me, we stick to
our side. The only thing we both can do is pray for some kind of
civil war catalyst so then we can fight it out legally. Well not
legally, just under the cover of darkness or chaos or whatever it
might be. You can talk about how cool nine-year-old drag kids are

for now, but when the time comes, don't be surprised about getting
your teeth put on a curb."
I'm cut off by a stool tipping over as one of these faggot's
girlfriends storms off in rage. The boyfriend sits still, bewildered by
either her actions or mine. I decide not to finish my train of thought
and turn to the bartender for a glass of water. Nobody picks the
conversation back up. Nobody orders another drink.
Should have listened to Dale Carnegie this time around.

Poor people all tend to smell the same. Cheap spray-on scents
(take a shower and wear aluminum-free deodorant), shitty laundry
detergent (you don't need it), cat piss diluted by repeated dryer sheet
exposure (don't own a cat). The poor always smell like those strange
flea market stress remedies ¬the ones in the little glass bottles. The
poor always smell like public transportation and in turn public
transportation begins to smell poor. The poor smell poor, and the
second they get a little bit of extra cash, they buy expensive things
that still look or smell poor.
And they can't shop for their lives, either. They will pay $5.99
for a bag of ten microwave-ready chicken nuggets rather than the
$6.99 for a fair selection of fresh chicken cutlets, or just get double
that amount at a butcher for $3.99. It's not about the ease of cooking,
or the inability to do so, they just genuinely believe this is the
smartest option. That's the worst part. Not only do these meals
provide lesser, more expensive portions, but they are loaded with
horrible preservatives and strange, experimental USDA chemicals.
Seed oil ridden body killers, shelf stable astronaut concoctions,

things that would look fitting in an actual witch's cauldron. Those
Tyson chicken bites could last centuries or a voyage to Neptune and
back, meaning they are probably not safe for human consumption.
Granted we all tend to eat things like this once in a while, but this is
where the poor divide themselves. They exist entirely on these
foods. This is why the poor stay poor. This is why the poor stay fat
and ugly. If you see someone poor and/or on this kind of diet, and
they look attractive, you must save them however you can. Show
them the way out and rescue their genetics before food alters them
In the grand scheme of things, we are all victims. Soy, antinutrients, plaque, and viscous chemicals run ample in our blood. It
manipulates the very code that makes us, us. We are being
weakened, made docile for whoever yells the orders next. Nothing is
truly safe to eat anymore unless you exile yourself to a forest and
physically choose and kill what enters your stomach — or know
someone who does that When it comes to modern food, there is only
really bad and sort of bad.
The grandmasters don't want us dead, they want us weak and
subservient, obviously. This is nothing new, but finding out exactly
what does it, well that is new. Fluoride in the water, hormones in the
milk, gender dysmorphia in the air.

Asians — the world's leaders in revolutionary technology and
whatever other garbage shit nobody needs around. For the past
couple years, I've often found myself thrown off when thinking
about these people who I can't quite figure out. Asians leave me with

the same feeling I get after imaging being left to float alone in outer
space, forever.
I see them in the same way I see a bored video game player.
You have someone who's played Grand Theft Auto so much that
he's exhausted all the normal ways routes of continuing. He's beat
the whole game, but something keeps him there (maybe he feels
there's nothing better), and so he finds a new approach. He breaks
the boundaries and walls, glitches through the floors and ceilings,
grants himself immunity and infinite resources, etc. The normal
playstyle is now foreign to him, he's circled back around and sees
everything as exploitable. Asians see real life this way, or at least
this is what I believe.
I sat on YouTube for hours once, enamored by videos of this
Japanese guy making razor-sharp knives from a bunch of
unexpected materials. A knife made out of cardboard, a knife made
out of glass, a knife made out of ice, a knife made out of noodles —
and all so sharp you wouldn't believe it. Initially, I was impressed.
This didn't last long, however, because the more I thought about it
and the closer I inspected the videos, the more I began to ask a very
simple question: why?
Anyone can easily explain it away as a hobby of his, but me
being an introspective genius brain, refused to accept this as the end.
From what I could see, he lived in a tasteful (probably expensive)
apartment loaded with fancy appliances, set before a decent view.
Full fridge, nice clothing, clean cut and obviously well-off enough to
spend hours making knives from strange objects. So why? Not the
best example to support my theory, but I like it nonetheless.


The knife videos were quickly displaced by a headline that
Sure, but why? What the fuck compels someone, compels a
tribe of people to do this sort of thing? There is already a moon.
Why even do this? What the fuck?
I strongly believe that the existence of Asians, specifically the
Chinese and Japanese, is an affront to God. Whether you believe in
the existence of a master creator or not, the fact remains that Asians
refuse to pull the brakes. They refuse to stop and reflect, worried
only about pulling back the layers of every imaginable aspect of life
and seeing how they can modify or monetize it. Like the bored
Grand Theft Auto player finds ways to fall through the game's floor,
the Asians find ways to timidly deconstruct the standard order of
life. But again, I ask why?
At least with the Jews it's pretty widely known that the
sometimes strange, often sinister things they do are for an overall
tribal gain. They are bound together by their sort of code or central
text, The Talmud. They do what they do for financial gain, higher
status, more control, so on — this is easily understood by most. But
with the Asians, not only is their endgame unknown, but they do
much more bizarre and confusing things. It's easy to understand why
Jews would falsify the entire history of Christianity when faced with
`extinction or survival at any cost'. It's easy to see how guys Woody
Allen and Roman Polanski got away with molesting teenagers. It's
not so easy to understand why the Chinese are trying to put another
moon in the sky. And so, you maybe see why this leaves me with a
feeling similar to being left alone, drifting through open space.

Granted that the Asians are as smart as we believe, they are
likely farther ahead than the world could ever know. If technology
capable of making and launching a fake moon is public, what sort of
chicanery is going on behind the curtains? What are the Chinese, the
Japanese, the whatever other slanted eye peoples capable of, really?
I would bet lots of money I don't have that they control a lot more
than we know. I would bet that same money that every four years, a
group of gooky mega-aristocrats pick a random name from a hat,
and the next that person is The President of the United States. Or
maybe they pick the one that will give them the most bang for their
buck, the highest level of entertainment for those next four years.
Maybe the walls of their boardroom are totally invisible to the
human eye, maybe nobody inside it ever dies, maybe they have
some secret no one will ever know. As an extremely racist friend of
mine says, "with IC=1 , never blink."A2

We could rebuild old Greece. Knock down the skyscrapers,
burn modern art, wipe blank the entirety of digitization. We can
level housing developments and turn shopping centers back into
forests. We could leave behind a world of impurity and pain.
Arguments settled in sword fights. Television replaced by live
theater. Everything is marble and nothing hurt. We could tell the
time via sundial and we could raise our precious young in the purity
of sunlight. We could sleep and wake as our bodies felt. We could
finally look up and see stars again. They would reflect in our eyes,
guiding the way when memory couldn't. Then, just as this all
becomes routine to us, we burn it all down and start again.


We were born too late. Too late to see the sun set behind
massive pillars of stone and marble. Too late to see the greatest
warriors of all time. Too late to feel the chilling uncertainty of how
the world truly was, how the world truly came to be. Too late to set
sail among oceans that promised either untold findings or a watery
grave. Too late to live as intended.
We missed the time when a lonely traveler looked up at the
moon and had absolutely no idea what it was. Sure, he could look
through a telescope and better see the surface, but he'd never get rid
of that overwhelming never knowing. It's like staring into the ocean
at night. Calm like the dead or not, it's terrifying because you know
it's so much larger than you can ever comprehend. It's worrying
because you know a few dangerous creatures lurk just beneath. Even
still, you stare into it and sway back and forth til it dizzies you. The
ocean is one of the only man-shadowing frontiers we have left. It's
an abyss, in every sense of the word. I find it more chilling than any
gaze into space. Space isn't "here". The ocean surrounds us all,
forever, immediately so. Space is a spook even to the people that
travelled it. The ocean carries immeasurable levels of terror and
wonder, especially at night. It holds secrets of the world past,
treasures of the men before, and forfeits neither without a fight.
Atlantis and her people are still alive, uninterrupted by
modernity. You won't find them because they don't want to be
found. The ocean might always protect her.
We will never live in a period when there were no easily
accessible peer-review studies for every imaginable thought. There
were very simple, very basic instances of life that could set straight
every hair on the thinking man's head. And the further we go back in
time, the harder it is for me to imagine just how beautiful things

could be. I want to know what it's like to not understand a single
thing about the universe surrounding; to look at stars in the sky and
be absolutely floored by the possibilities. Are they bugs? Are they
others like me, lighting fires for warmth? Are they smaller suns?
Why does that large white circle turn ever so slightly along with
them, all in unison? Are they moving or am I?
Imagine the Earth without a single piece of manmade garbage
to disgrace it. We fucked this place up. We fucked it up and we
made up stories to justify it and quiet the ever-searing guilt. There's
a grand creator and his son died for our sins, so that makes it okay to
cover ripe soil with weed farms, Walmart's, and porn studios?
We need to stop building, stop dysgenic breeding, stop
removing ourselves from nature. This argument is old news,
however. You're a hippie to desire a more environmentallyconscious population. You're an eco-terrorist to be so angry over the
ruin of nature that you'd kill to end it. Protecting nature is
embarrassing to most; a joke that anyone can laugh about in total
It used to be okay to kill in the name of something reasonable.
Someday that kind of thinking will come back. It always comes
back. Has to come back.
"Hell is other people."

I haven't slept in five entire days and the world is a Ray
Bradbury novel with way more fatasses. Have you ever felt how
great this feels? I feel it and I feel great. Not sleeping for this long

grants you with unlimited strength at the same time as having zero
strength. You are float.
It's a safe bet that I shouldn't be driving like this but I am and
completely forgot where to. Music at its loudest makes my vision
shake, and at its quietest makes me nervous, uneasy. I am totally
aware of every breath exiting and entering my body and I am totally
aware of everything happening around me. The best part is nobody
knows that I've entered superhuman levels of sleep deprivation. I am
awoked. I am alive. There's something in the water and it's killing us
all but we deserve it. Rome fell. America too. Which is more
embarrassing I don't know but I'll be long gone by the time we
realize this all so I push onwards.
Fingers hovering the keyboard sound like candy unwrapping.
Sudden loud noises sound are like gunshots, similar to how pain
feels worse in the freezing cold. A man taps on his car door, waiting
for the light to turn green and I hear snare drums bang. I took
melatonin at three PM today to dig myself even deeper. And I don't
touch receipts, I never touch receipts. They contain poison, gay
poison, poison to make you gay poison. I try to read a book and the
lines all pinch together. The words all look the same no matter how
much space or difference between them. I have "read" the same
sentence again and again, enough times to have just read the book
itself. I bite celery and each closing down feels like a chore, but this
amazes me so much that it's distracting, and no longer feels like a
I avoid using cutlery because, in this state of absolute unrest, I
know it would not end well. Five minutes after making this mental
note, I shake myself from a slight dozing off to find I'm dicing up
raw milk cheese. I don't know why ¬I only wanted to eat the cheese

itself, so there was no reason to divide it up. There's really no reason
for me to be awake for this long. I decided to do it out of curiosity
and now I've become retarded, literally retarded. Is this what down
syndrome is like? Every minute that passes I realize it feels like I'm
keeping my balance upon a pirate ship. We're on some very rough
waters. My shins are bruised from shifting pieces of cargo. Crates
and barrels are smashing against the walls, and the contents blow
away in the wind. Gunpowder? No, it looks more like a liquid,
maybe brandy or something. Yes, liquid like me. There's nobody
else on this ship. There's not even a captain or someone to steer us
forward. This forty-foot gathering of wood and nails is at the mercy
of the sea and its total indifference. Waves push us towards what I
can only assume is land and then minutes later we are carried back
out into the faceless fog. I drop a bowl on the ground and shattered
glass shrapnel nicks my foot. I'm awake, still awake, lacerated. This
warns me of that much. Or probably not, if that makes any sense. I
make another mental note: The time is three-thirty PM and I've
learned how to fall asleep standing up. The only reason I didn't is I
forgot to starting how.There is a giant, and I truly mean giant island directly ahead of
this hulking warship. Verily. Verily and with the wind. We crash on
its shore and thank whatever unknown force made this so. There's no
we, I soon understand. Just me.
Maybe it's six days, that I've been up.
All the precious ship cargo is destroyed by this point.
Whatever was inside those crates and barrels belongs now to the
stormy seas around me. Coconuts and appetizing berries cover the
greenery behind a bed of white sand. I giggle and it carries on for so
long that I start to fully laugh. My body shakes — not here, not on

the island but in my kitchen of the real world. "Holy mother, why
aren't you glad?" Or maybe they are both real worlds, which by now,
I am confident about my ability to have achieved such a thing. I
created a bridge between two dimensions in this sleep-deprived
supermeltdown. How wild! I'd tell someone but I stopped talking
about three days into this psychosomatic bender. I think more about
it and decide I would never tell anyone. There's something telling
me that telling them could take it all away. But the words just kind
of say themselves rather than me choosing them carefully. I can
smell smoke and it's definitely coming from deep within the woods.
I've got a handful of berries that I eat while tip-toeing through the
brush. My feet are bare but my feet are callused and strong. I've
been doing this for a while in the pirate ship island world, I guess. I
repeat myself a lot, in thought at least, because I don't talk. I stopped
talking about three days into this adventure. The words just kind of
The smoke was coming from a small campsite inhabited by
exactly zero people. I'm not surprised as someone who singlehandedly maintained the loneliest pirate ship for so many months. I
wasn't necessarily mentally present for all that time but the tally
carved into our mast told me so. I'm the first to navigate around the
tip of Africa, I tell me.
I'm making another bowl of diced raw milk cheese before I've
even cleaned the broken pieces from my last effort. I can't tell the
pieces of cheese and glass apart. I can't tell the floor tiles from the
grout that divides them. I can't tell anyone about the vampire I found
in the woods. Campfire not vampire. I can't figure out why I've been
dicing the cheese up and putting it into bowls. That's two levels of
resistance I needn't approach.

This means there is someone else here on the island, despite
my ability to find them. I wonder what I'll say when I finally find
them. My vocal cords are likely hoarse by now. I stopped talking
about three days into this adventure. The words just kind of —
The campfire, pretty and calming. The campfire, I sit on a log
nearby and lay my head on a pile of elephant ear leaves stacked high
upon it. The smoke smells brilliant, sedates me until a jolting
realization that I've diced too much cheese into the bowl back in
cheese world. There's cheese and glass and blood all over the place
and I really wish that someone else would just clean it up and not
say a word to me in the