Reading into the Reading in to into the Reading...

I count seconds like you all register days; where’s my spread? All pro/con list feels so fifty/fifty the villain’s checkmate. Can’t count once I’ve proven they’ve been removing the colored stickers. Pawns mid-season of a treason siding with the royal heathens. Ignore the grab is all I’m saying. You’ll be paying. Dawn’s the masks in and under the car, stark revamp of unfinished existence, total center of the resistance shit, an energy foreign that makes me feel like home. I don’t feel like I should leave anyone alone, used to being alone in that, as a matter of FACT. What am I even doing? Neat winter in the drought, who would ask for that? Laugh track kind of daily actor, plus, can’t fucking stand the cameras. Want the horror from the cosmic—slow going down blood rapids—“why isn’t my bending working?” I raised us to the plinth at the waterfall’s edge ten minutes ago; please sit down and stop screaming if you want us on the ground safely.

I struggle not to be a social dissector; Dr. Vivasector missing the meat and potatoes LIVE! for the ‘I hate your inconvenience,’ rip cord. Did—did you just draw a sword?! Wreck three weeks after the accident. Grieving in reverse order and also practicing the speech; the cause of death to be announced on a later date--those are the blank spots. Who actually had a pen to drop?!? Losing the grip—sanity? I unsubscribed from the marketing media sites. The healers think the ‘fake it until you make it method is treating the common cold, but as that debunked code gains traction, the use of reality seems garbage-tier by our own standards.    

Part 2 for some reason...

Gotta knack for the hackie sacking visions, quizzing this version of me’s current progress. Every second live like the normies day, (as said before) How can I convey it clearer, Clarence? Finishing what’s on the docket is your problem. Break it down time; the sick and twisted slice of scene to examine human nomenclature for no--one in particular—source at all. Nope, nothing. Research wrecked by the moral conundrum of needing a text subject willing to analyze data from seven different dimensional discipline categories. Colored, not numbered, don’t fall for the fakes. On the autopsy table, stabler than it ever was, rope marks witnessed from some astral position or whatever. If I can’t jumpstart the ticker, what am I waiting for? Here goes nothing brought me here, back to some[redacted]…lost…Hunting down the light switch down with explicitly scenic prejudice, what a question...shhh! {no one is listening} “Are you mad!?.                        Yes.                       Matter of Fact, the pat on the back act remembered by the birth and the disappearing shaman in the corner I saw fading into a wax mannequin with its clothes and skin removed. (Is this a training birth?) Soothed me? Never heard the reference. The ‘text’ sounds vaguely lecturous; note the dire inflection of the confession has a fiery tell…

Still I scream. Scream silently into this good night, not angry, but in a voice called upon or else the eons blipped to this for nothing. Not sure what should come of this, who I’m talking to. Will they recognize it? What am I hoping for? Is this hope? Being hopeful—lost in thought {same thing} with a scenario to play out like the T.S.A. calls it a code three, greater-than symbol. (3< that?) How many flights have been love-bombed into multi-city delays? Public affection splayed on the way to gate Hotel 15 and Romeo 23 plan accordingly. Or the half-sleep gaze from the loading zone and the fell-on hug that melts on you and leaves a puddle from planned scolding for the few-hour tardiness. Blame the 3 AM traffic. Of all the ways to fly, it’s the best way to land. Fuck! Jolly, Miss Golly, there’s that folly of mine again. Sometimes they are triggered remotely—triggered to be misremembered that way.