there are socks with a thousand holes and in my dream i escape every last one. i think that i’m back when i’m around and when i’m here i’m always gone. i don’t think love exists, but exits. it’s constant reaffirmation like yeah, beat me again. say it again. slap me on the wrist. it hurts, but i love you anyway. i love you anyway and that’s all there is. i can’t keep making myself believe in congruent lines or lines that fade away in a sort of diagrammatic order. i make believe the lines are swirling, dancing, breathing, whatever whatever whatever. making myself come is not the goal. effort is annoying but well worth the foot i put forward. language is a game that we all eventually lose. i like drugs. i like the lack of depth in humanity. they’re all so fucking stupid. all so fucking stupid. i could draw myself into a corner and be okay with that just so i could watch you. i’m afraid of stupidity catching me. catching me fall and fumble and laugh and i’m afraid of falling for humanity when there is none. nothing. there’s nothing at all i’m afraid of because i don’t know anything ever. really.
i’m gonna be a post-modern pragmatist for halloween.