I have promised that I will save your life if you only listen. You will have to materialize as something other than cloud-based content. You will have to sprout invisible wings and fly beyond the constricts that threaten to nail down even the most malleable, the wind thieves, the flute players. You will triumph over the close mimicking of creation by algorithms that cheapen thought and convince many that everything has been said. Digital realities, oh yes they exist insofar as they effect behavior of the lazy, lamprosite, feeble minded, feverish.
You will fight against yourself daily, whispering to those who half-listen. There will be an immediacy to your words, allies uncertain, there will be a moment when the signal is given. Then there will be either ignition or silence. The clues hidden in plain view. Moving beyond slavish adherence to the now, among those who consider themselves digital gatekeepers. Self moderated expression, fabric. Curated knowledge, valuing of thought and time spent as humans.
If those times would only come again, one thinks. Maybe they are now becoming. Archived reality, alternate reference points. There is a multiplicity of reference points, a hollowness to the clickbait tsunami. A dry constrict of unhappening in today’s literature––blasphemy––the lighthouse is empty, unguarded. The sheeple, the muggles, the muggins, McGuffins. Tengo you have found me lathered in Unrealism, a wild sheep living in a cave, working on dreads––the very definition of disaster. The anthropology of the e-cigarette laid out with sharp demarcated vapor running into still breathing lungs. The latch of the bathroom stall that lifts and latches several times an hour, the fan whirring, buckets forcing water down, heat, infamy. Darkness? What darkness? Light? What light? Perfect breasts, perfect curse, I am unrepentant. Clickbait no more.
#endurancewriter
You will fight against yourself daily, whispering to those who half-listen. There will be an immediacy to your words, allies uncertain, there will be a moment when the signal is given. Then there will be either ignition or silence. The clues hidden in plain view. Moving beyond slavish adherence to the now, among those who consider themselves digital gatekeepers. Self moderated expression, fabric. Curated knowledge, valuing of thought and time spent as humans.
If those times would only come again, one thinks. Maybe they are now becoming. Archived reality, alternate reference points. There is a multiplicity of reference points, a hollowness to the clickbait tsunami. A dry constrict of unhappening in today’s literature––blasphemy––the lighthouse is empty, unguarded. The sheeple, the muggles, the muggins, McGuffins. Tengo you have found me lathered in Unrealism, a wild sheep living in a cave, working on dreads––the very definition of disaster. The anthropology of the e-cigarette laid out with sharp demarcated vapor running into still breathing lungs. The latch of the bathroom stall that lifts and latches several times an hour, the fan whirring, buckets forcing water down, heat, infamy. Darkness? What darkness? Light? What light? Perfect breasts, perfect curse, I am unrepentant. Clickbait no more.
#endurancewriter
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