I just found out my stalker is making it big. He made a video with my favourite designer. How does that make you feel. I won’t ever watch it. Too triggering. Too jarring. It will be too beautiful. No warning.
Things are getting closer. Everything’s more forreal.
I can see the tip of adulthood’s penis for its full sticky glory. And I am the glorious hole. The glory is mine, one of many in this sink or swim or sink or swim no swim or sink and watch the waves go by. So many people lined the rue tonight. Barely lit they stood: waiting. For what womb to arrive bearing new beginnings offerings of gold myrrh, no sense here. What are you looking at? What they all see, I’d like the vision. I’d like less, actually: carve out my skull and place it at the foot of Golgotha. Let it shine like the blood of the chosen one who could see too much yet feel so little. So little pain on the cross that he got right up again after a crucifixion. A crucifixion dear god please teach me that way so I can awake from my own hanging unscathed. Clear. Clean. Shaven. No benign thoughts and subconscious aches about nothingness that doesn’t make sense. To an enth degree. To infinity and beyond. O, to be a lightyear o, to have a light year. O what must it be like to be light for a year no I don’t ask I wish to ask for the seed to be sown of how you cannot fathom the weight of years of why. Why me. Why. What me is this erasure what me is there to know or question from I’d like to remove my care because, you see, my care never got me nowhere my care was the have for the world. I, the tortoise deshelled carved out my carapace left to become master’s bowl.
