I’m doing things like living: frantically searching for an apartment, going through the mortifying process of applying for grants, and working constantly. Trying to thrive in hell, what could be more embarrassing?
Apparently, the only way through is through. Awful. I see things, and I reel, feel nauseated with the association, even dissolved. I keep moving.
Sorry for what I wanted. Big and round and full of itself.
Everyone knows you’re retarded now!
Oh well.
Winter dangles spring in our faces.
A petty bitch having a last laugh.
I never saw the swimmer. But men have faces again.
I wrote: it would be nice to fuck one more time before the end of the world.
Petulant in the face of.
As you read this, the world burns in a thousand different ways. News of it reaches us in post-irony, unable to be processed without the language of detachment. It is impotent, incapable of stirring or rousing, inspiring action. Everything’s a parody of itself: a symphony, an orchestra of emotionally charged buzzwords.
We barely register the infantilizing, absurd madness anymore: the cast of something called Ted Lasso gives a white house address on mental health as Mark Hamil lends his Luke Skywalker voice to an app that alerts Ukranians of “potential incoming attacks.” The audience is seemingly grateful or too tired to care. The audience needs a show, it doesn’t need to be good.
With no shared goals or resources and a continued, sharpened, and obviously deadly individualism presiding over everything, how is violence even surprising? The powerless moralism of liberalism renders us broken bystanders.
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