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.