hi :)

Thinking about good books and getting pissed off

You see I cannot write because I am too committed to the desire for writing. literature is just not the right rhetorical form for the desire to write itself. Literature cannot follow from the desire to write, it must come from another desire that grips me not often enough. When you have the desire to argue, you write an essay. When you have the desire to depict a scene, you write a poem. When you have the desire to explain, you write a recipe or a manual. You don’t write poetry to be understood, nor a manual for beauty. What then is the desire that suits literature? It cannot be the simple desire to write literature. The worst of poetry is written by those with the desire to be poets and the worst essays come from those with nothing to argue. The chosen form is necessitated by the corresponding desire. What then necessitates literature?

stroking my shit to ideas and concepts

god calls me on the payphone, tells me there aren't enough magnolia trees in the garden. asks me a question. i spend my whole life answering it.

you know when you and that e-girl you fancied actually make it and hook up but you live in different cities and shit. yeah that was chill and dating some sort of girl creature is nice but you know when you’ve endured weeks of “would you love me if i was a lamp🥺🥺” and “please mod my stream please mod my stream please mod my stream” and “spit in my mouth” messages and you go to her place for date weekend and the smell just hits you like a wall when you open the door. homegirl got that reek. that no shower november, that cheap vodka and mcdonalds sweat vibe. That thank god you can’t smell me thru twitch kinda beat and you find her huddled in her cave watching whetever chinese cartoon is on the meme this week and before she gets at you with that “daddy i’m not dirty i’m just based and lainpilled” you drag her scrawny lil ass to the shower. she’s passed grimes and moved onto mud and baby you’re a gas station powerwasher. There’s no use resisting, you’re filled with the concerned rage of a diappointed parent. You ain’t daddy, you’re Father dearest. you hose her down properly but there is challenge waiting. the layers of filth, makeup and grease has formed a waterproof cocoon. girl putting the crusty in crustecean and you need a hammer and a chisel to break open the shell to get at the juicy pale white girlmeat inside. She makes a fuss like an angry cat and threaten to refuse wearing the asuka costume for you ever again, but she eventually drops the hissing and succumbs to the soap and water. Colours you ain’t ever seen before swirls around the drain hole and you just know you have to bleach the shit out of that later. Your creature is reborn as she emerges from the dirt and you remember why you love her. She’s beautiful. Cracked open and freed you dry her off with a towel and kiss her forehead. You cook her dinner after airing out her place and she nearly pukes before once again adjusting to solids. You two talk about how you feel as the evening drags on into the long night. Two humans connecting, breaking bread and caring for eachother. Love wins

no rest for me and im not even that wicked ?