Big body streams

Hard to find the words to describe how life's tribulations degradingly betray us. Fight rather than make peace. Speaking, rather than doing. Exclusive destruction feels good, construction of myself only does for a while.

Life goes backwards, forwards, right and center. Non-linear in the horrifically grotesque image of realism, not a potpourri smelling hippy at his 15th festival this year talking about time.

Staying in one place is too much for me to bear as I sweat beads of boredom. A few years makes the last six months a place of monotonous cocksuckery and melancholy suicidal ideation that brings me right back to the places and people and things which cause my beads to turn to stress and frustration and fear.

Currently I am obsessed with the concept of duality, because there is so much of it in my own life.

I have very little insight into other people's lives since my own is all consuming like a raging inferno at a Texas fraternity's bonfire.

I like my writing and I don't. Others like it, I wonder if they're lying to appease and placate. Adjectives? TOO MANY I suppose. Fuck you that is how I write you can throw this fucking book in the nearest garbage bin, and then jump on in.

Time spent appeasing people is time spent by the weak and miserable. I don't even know you. You're just dumb enough to buy my book. Be strong and miserable. Be dangerous and harmless. Be an asshole and a saint.

Be confident and vulnerably insecure to the point you leave yourself open to immense pain and suffering that permeates a majority of your memories and feelings towards on a daily basis until you are so fucking dead inside that you don't want to kill yourself anymore unless it would make you feel alive and not completely gone as your pride consumes you, what you once felt you can't even feel in your chest.

It's you.