lachrymal liminality.

once upon a time i had a dream––tell me what this means..

i’m moving through a street at dusk, trailing an indian man i don’t know but implicitly distrust. he vaults across city blocks with quiet certainty, as though he’s apprised of, attuned to a geometry i haven’t yet learned. then, almost imperceptibly, he slips through a seam in the city––a concealed passageway i would have missed entirely had i not been studying, appraising him so closely..

and before the aperture can close, i pass through after him..

the corridor is nauseatingly narrow, pressing in on both sides kinda like that one (dream) sequence in inception as it descends via a steep, dim stairwell––an infrastructural incursion beneath the visible world. i press onward as the city above me recedes both spatially and ontologically..

arriving, i find myself in a vast, dark, cement–reinforced hangar––cathedral–scale, subterranean––alongside high school and college friends. i drift through its advanced facilities, eventually opting to shower via extremely filtered water in a high–end spa, then lingering in adjoining recreation spaces––adorned with seemingly curated twenty–something women (as though vetted for aesthetic coherence), and other strangers familiar..

at some point after, my friends and i find ourselves stationed beside a doorway leading into a long, sterile corridor, an elevator waiting at its terminal––and we’re being interrogated about a crime. something in me––irrational, almost devotional––impels me to surrender, submitting to arraignment on charges i know to be fraudulent..

a security guard derides me hyperbolically––almost theatrically––mocking my evanescent six–pack (LIES lolzz) as he cuffs me. he escorts me down the corridor and into an elevator, and in that quiet descent one cuff slips cleanly from my wrist––effortless, almost preordained..

it dawns on me all at once that he was acting: i wasn’t actually ‘arrested’––i was being tested. the pressure dissolves instantly––and i am overcome with relief, immediate, absolute..

descending to one of the hangar’s restricted floors, we are greeted by a select group of military personnel who begin to delineate a far more expansive operation––the systematic dismantling of a global, transnational, trans–generational crime syndicate. i’m spiritually awestruck, yet intellectually unsurprised, to discover that ‘black hats’ were long ago apprehended, convicted for their crimes against humanity––their myriad cells scattered around us like constellations of consequence..

their leader––calm, almost benevolent––affirms what i already intuitively know: that all public figures ‘out there’––leaders, CEOs, celebrities, et al—are actors in masx, and that ‘white hats’ are sustaining a prolonged, deliberate spectacle designed to gradually coax the public awake. and everything the public is seeing is nothing but theatre––all of it..

before departing, he leaves me with a final assignment: one last, preeminent bad actor remains at large––and that i need to find, apprehend him..

he wishes me luck with a warm, knowing smile––his kind eyes dissolving into a bleary backstory of my awareness as i descend on hypnopompia..

somatogravic prerogatives.

once upon a time i had a dream—tell me what this means..

i find myself within a totally circumscribed, walled–off city dreamscape—sealed off from the broader world by an immense barrier rising intimidatingly at its peripheral boundaries. our only means of passage to the other side is an extraordinarily perilous contrivance––a kind of electrified zip line superstructure suspended thousands of feet in the air, at points ascending in near–vertical trajectory, navigable only by the fucking insane..

a ‘friend’ and i apprehensively elect to mount it, leaving the safety of familiar grounds in our wake..

we ascend into the sky, suspended in appalling elevation above the city below. the entire line feels excruciatingly precarious, provisional––liable to collapse at any moment. yet throughout my ascent, my chief preoccupation is not bodily harm but the fear that my brand new lavender eye phone might slip from grasp and vanish into the depths below..

i clutch it with inexplicably tenuous care, holding it in a manner wholly at odds with my obsessive anxiety––as i am absurdly and neurotically preoccupied with not losing it to the abyss lolzz..

suddenly, without warning—as if borne of my own fears––the metal mechanism by which i am suspended from the line gives way––and i am cast downward into the depths below, my entire body reflexively bracing for imminent death..

yet by (implied) divine providence, at that exact moment, we are passing above the parapet of an immense gothic rooftop, and so i fall only a short way—maybe seven, ten feet––landing somewhat athletically, acrobatically onto the slate tiles below..

when i strike the rooftop, one of its tiles gives way slightly beneath me, almost as though it was left loose by my higher self in anticipation of my arrival. collecting myself and surveying my environs, i espy the broken apparatus that moments earlier bore my weight, now shattered upon the rooftop with almost ceremonial vividness..

my friend, lingering upon the line slightly longer, soon descends upon the rooftop as well, though not immediately proximate to me. for the briefest of moments, we converge there in a kind of breathless communion before pressing onward..

it becomes immediately clear to me that the zip line is no longer necessary––and that wherever i must now go must be reached via other means..

together we set out across the high and treacherous parapets, proceeding by our own steps through an elevated and perilous cityscape..

and then, somewhat ethereally, my vantage recedes into that of a distant, omniscient witness. i see us from afar––two small silhouettes quietly navigating the abandoned heights of a sealed world beneath a dreary, frigid skyscape, sustained now not by sight or machinery but faith alone..

and as i evaluate us vaulting with elfin agility across the city skyline––with bated breath and melancholy heart––the dream dissolves irreverently into hypnopompia..

angel of death.

three nites ago, under the full pink moon, i had another lucid dream––tell me what this means…

i find myself suspended within a rarefied, almost utopian vertical space––a multi–tiered climbing academy of such staggering opulence that it transcends the genre of ‘gym’ altogether––converging on something else entirely, like a private, world–class sanctum of athletic ascendance, reserved for an exalted and vanishingly select echelon. every surface gleams with intention––every line of architecture suggests excess and neurotic precision––as though cost became laughingly irrelevant forever ago..

from the highest floor i occupy a position not of exertion, but of quiet, appraising dominion––perched somewhere in the superstructure’s empyrean, at a balcony vantage overlooking the ascent of others, and beyond that, the skyline of an adjacent city dissolving softly into light..

through a vast aperture in the structure, a sheer rock face rises––part natural, geogenic formation, part contrived, anthropogenic construct––a vertical proving ground where climbers test themselves against curated peril. among these athletes, i make out the distinct physiognomy and aura of tom cruise, ascending with effortless precision, ostensibly untouched by the contingencies that bind ordinary anatomies. though he is accompanied by a safety harness, he does not rely on it––his discipline appears total, almost preeminent..

he reaches the summit––my level––and rather than dismounting onto the adjacent platform, he remains suspended in a state of poised stillness. his climb complete, his purpose apparently dissolved, he lingers there in a state of quiet abeyance, tethered yet inactive––as if the culmination itself has emptied the act of meaning..

my attention drifts––the space grows diffuse, liminal, briefly populated by other figures, then emptied. i return to the balcony under the impression of solitude, only to realize that he never left. he is still there, suspended, resting within the tension of his own apparatus, his legs wrapped tightly around his rope..

then, not long after, his voice––intimate, unguarded, vulnerable––rises with a strange, pensive clarity: ‘i love you, kelly’..

and immediately after that utterance, i hear the sound of release––the tension of his harness giving way, lines slackening, a body falling..

moments later, the finality of impact––the most horrific thud i have ever heard––echoes upward from a distant, cold mezzanine..

i stand there, suspended in uncertainty, not of what happened––but of why. was it a failure of attention––a fleeting lapse in an otherwise perfect system..

or was it a deliberate, quiet, unannounced decision to let go. self–erasure..

the dream offers no answer––only the sepulchral echo of his body within hallowed, opulent confines, and an existential purgatory renascent..

aureate abrogation.

fourteen years ago, somewhere in the early spring of twenty twelve, i had the exact same recurring dream four, maybe five times in the same month..

since twenty twenty one, i’ve found myself increasingly retrospectively wondering whether the physical spikes of that first sequence, stark along the shoreline, were a prophetic prefiguration––auguring the pathogenic spikes that would be deployed on billions nine years later..

i’m positioned aerially along the belvedere coastline, my viewport dimmed beneath a heavy, overcast sky. the water lies flat, argentine––the circumambient air carrying a disconsolate stillness..

then, suddenly, the view shifts, almost violently, as if the scene is being torn open—and i make out myriad spikes lining the rocky shore..

at first they register only as structures––but as i draw nearer, the image resolves with a kind of unwilling clarity. they are not empty..

i realize instantly that the severed heads of friends, family are pierced upon them––bloodied, suspended, unmistakable. this mise–en–scène lingers cruelly, forcing recognition where one would prefer abstraction..

the first face that comes into focus is that of my former dentist––unexpected, but somehow marked as the beginning. almost like the first domino in a chain whose consequences only time could reveal in earnest..

others follow, implied if not fully seen, until the coastline itself feels consecrated by this silent procession..

and then, without rupture, the scene lifts..

i am positioned aerially again, looking out onto the skyline of the city. the skycape has shifted chromatically now––imbued with pastel, amethyst hues, bruised, luminous against the horizon..

the golden gate bridge lies utterly collapsed––its scaffolding shattered, its span undone. from its wake, a bloom of smoke unfurls into the night sky––the violence that birthed it already receding, leaving only residue behind..

the city stands beyond it, intact, distant, while the passage that once connected everything lies broken beneath the same sky..

and before i can cry out for celestial exposition, i awaken..

vertiginous vespers.

two nights ago i had a dream––tell me what this means..

i find myself navigating a diversified, alpine landscape––mountains, forested paths, and steep ridgelines unfolding like a vast and wandering obstacle course. the terrain demands effort at every turn, and the movement is difficult––but the usual friction that arrests me in such dreams is strangely absent. i am largely physically, acrobatically ‘succeeding’––surreally bereft of the nauseating spiritual or existential encumbrances that tend to saturate my default dream psyche..

at one point the path leads through a quiet forested slope. there, adjacent to the trail, i come across the corpse of a panther ensconced in a body bag––and affixed to the bag is a handwritten tag bearing my own name ‘lucas’..

i pause, struck by the unsettling intimacy and implications of this mise–en–scène––wondering if some part of me has maybe been laid to rest along the path?

the terrain mutates slightly, and the forest begins to thin as the mountain rises sharply before me. i make my way up a long acclivity that gradually steepens into a rock face i must climb..

before pressing onward, i glance back—and there i see another panther, this one alive, standing somewhere proximate to the bag..

it evaluates me pensively, sovereign, composed––neither approaching nor threatening..

and its presence feels somehow connected to the fallen one behind it, as though it has come to bear silent witness..

i continue my ascension––and ahead of me another silhouette is proceeding up the mountain path, already negotiating the terrain that awaits me..

the slope grows steeper until at last the path opens onto a high plateau along the mountainside. the ascent softens there, and the landscape widens outward—though strangely the terrain now takes on an urban character, resembling the rooftop of an immense parking structure suspended improbably amidst the mountains..

as i step onto this strange rooftop expanse, i notice an escalator positioned at its center, descending downward––a quiet anthropogenic passage standing incongruously within the alpine heights, its presence carrying a curious sense of reprieve..

i approach and pause at its threshold, apprehensively poised to step onto it and begin my descent..

and in that suspended moment––between effort and surrender, between ascent and return––with a single saccade of my pulsing eyes, the dream ends..

aureate anamnesis.

last week i had a dream––tell me what this means..

it’s sometime after midnite, and i find myself perambulating the golden gate bridge alongside my parents. we are somehow upon a hidden arc of the span––a tight, ostensibly geometrically impossible U curvature we have never been permitted to traverse before, merging into the straight expanse of the bridge. we navigate the arc in quiet wonder..

when it is time to exit scene, i observe another version of myself—donning red tapered pants and distressed sweater—setting off in haste, though he remains bound to me energetically by a faint tether of light. he slips irreverently into a stygian vehicle, strikes ignition, and pulls away with sudden urgency..

yet when he has traveled scarcely seventeen feet, the car erupts violently, emanating a fiery explosion against the aureate nite sky..

i am overcome with shock and apprehension—yet at the same time i carry a strange certainty that he is alive. i rush toward him reflexively, wrench open the car door, and smother the circumambient fire with my bare hands. he steps free from the wreckage, singed, distraught, disconsolate, but whole..

nearby, someone—perhaps a relative—moves to place a call, to explicate or escalate what has transpired, and i stop them..

maybe the moment required only empathy, not exposition..

reverse rapture.

once upon a time i had a dream––tell me what this means..

we are upon a bleak alpine plateau high in the mountains––surrounded by austere glacial terrain and thin, biting air. scattered across the plateau are enormous feeding troughs—long mangers like those used for livestock, but grotesquely magnified to a cyclopean scale. i find myself confined within one of these troughs alongside other children and friends, crowded together like animals awaiting slaughter..

towering above the plateau loom colossal giants––their physiognomies marred, grotesque and clownlike, almost like exaggerated anime caricatures. from time to time their immense hands descend from the sky, vast probing fingers sifting through the trough as though selecting morsels from a dish..

one by one they curate someone from among us, lifting them into the air between their fingers and devouring them––whole or piecemeal. i evaluate friends being seized and consumed as we scramble helplessly within the trough, comprehending that at any moment those monstrous fingers may descend again and select me next..

then suddenly a military detachment arrives and descends upon the plateau. they strike the giants down and rescue those of us who remain alive. for a moment i collapse into overwhelming relief––having escaped the grotesque fate of being harvested like livestock..

but the reprieve is only provisional..

the soldiers inform us that the only way out is to descend the mountain along an extremely perilous escarpment carved into the side of a sheer rock face. the path is narrow––sometimes scarcely wider than our boots––stretching for miles along a vertiginous drop into an immeasurable abyss..

we begin the descent. the rock wall rises beside us while the void opens endlessly below. as we traverse the exposed ledge i watch friends––teenagers and children––lose their footing, vanishing into the depths below..

at last i reach a section of the escarpment where the ledge narrows to only inches of stone beneath my feet. i stop there, suspended between the mountain and the abyss, seized by a profound and paralyzing dread. the air feels impossibly thin, the silence immense..

and in that suspended moment—poised precariously between ascent and fall, between terror and resolve—i awaken out of and into disconsolation..

where are you..

LS

until the end of time.

circa twenty seventeen lolzz..

your romantic storyline, delineated: boy meets girl, girl coaxes boy inexorably into his psychic submission, boy commemorates his acquiescence to a lifetime of female control by buying girl a twenty thousand dollar blood diamond. lmAo..

in my revised script––the original divine storyline––boy meets girl, boy looks prettier than girl doing it, boy collapses girl into existential and spiritual crisis that collapses hierarchical black magik power structures and births the new five dee world..

ask the question and don't wait for the answer. the answer has always been the same. girls run circles around boys in the modern era, capitalizing on sexual and psychic leverage that they've wielded since the dawn of time..

exhibit ay––not for the faint of heart: engaged ingénue wants to suk and fuk enrique iglesias on stage at his concert. lmao!

to be fair, she must have been off of birth control that month..

now, before you freak out and begin justifying, explaining away our young protagonist’s behavior, allow me to diagnose what you just observed..

some of my readers––indeed, even my male readers––will protest that any conclusions emanating forth from a singular video like this cannot possibly be accurate or revelatory, that context is important, that i need to be fair to the weaker sex, that most girls are so loyal!, blah blah blah..

but if you're at all enticed in this politically correct (and more emetic) direction, you're not paying attention. or perhaps you don't want to––perhaps you have a vested, egoic incentive not to pay the requisite attention..

and you haven't learned from maybe the greatest psychosexual field experiment yet captured––and perhaps my preferred video in the youtube compendium.

if the mise–en–scène is perfect, the relational context is sublime. it appears that, just moments before her prurient transgression, our busty maiden publicly revealed her personal backstory––explaining to enrique, and his concert audience broadly, that she was celebrating her birthday that nite with friends, and that her fiancé was at home, unavailable for comment..

in the proximate wake of this admission, enrique begins to serenade our girl protagonist with one of his acclaimed songs hero, which visibly reduces her to a puddle of teenage female hormones basically instantly.

as he commences his serenade (at around 0:20), tell me honestly what the chances are that her thoughts are with her husband to be meticulously attending to the dishes at home hmm? lol. now adumbrate the probability cloud that, in her heightened, liminal, sexually charged state, the only thing she feels––the only thing she knows––is the sustained, tingling sensation between her legs as she takes in the pop star's energy under the stage lites.

if you can summon the courage, let yourself evaluate her serene, guileless gaze––the default public female expressive facial form. watch her eyes as enrique ramps up his physical intimacy, his hands insolently grazing her perky breasts (her smiling, morally unencumbered acquiescence to which would probably be sufficient to impel any boyfriend slash fiancé to mental insanity, lollz)..

let yourself perceive the full force of her *reflexive* energetic and sexual submission to the preeminent latin pop star of the modern era––to an energy signature so overwhelming, so unfamiliar, so manifestly undeniable––the brute strength of which apparently enough to collapse her into starry–eyed amnesia, and perhaps the embryonic stages of narcissistic self-delusion (he's authentically in love with me).

and all of this transpires as a mindless, amoral female crowd hivemind––thoroughly apprised of her affianced status––amplifies, promotes, energetically sustains their deviant sexual chemistry. why. it's almost as if they're accessing our protagonist's heightened energy state vicariously through her as she plays out their sexual fantasies in real time. as their hero.

they cannot help themselves in the presence of his energy signature. and the inconvenient moistness between their legs is the reflexive, unconscious corroborator of the hypergamic instinct in play. and the harbinger of a custody settlement. sigh. girls will be girls..

maybe the most devastating take away from this exchange is that enrique, perhaps, believed he was giving this girl a gift that nite. lolz a gift with abundant reciprocal personal sexual benefits, to be clear, replicable in every city on earth––but a gift nonetheless. after all, what young girl wouldn't want to be summoned on stage to be swept off her feet by the object of her (pre)pubescent infatuation? but seriously. a part of him perhaps believed that he was granting her a beautiful, intimate experience she could cherish and relive with her friends and family until their dying days in a decaying, forgotten corner of the world. which is likely the moral rationale invoked by most celebrities congregating with the great unwashed during their virtue–signaling orgasm service projects across the third world.

but what he doesn't realize (and what all eminent energetic playmakers who enter and exit disparate energetic contexts on autopilot never seem to realize) is that he has ruined her life forever.

because what happens in the wake of that concert, in that silence after the lites go off?––as the confetti degrades on the stage in the empty arena somewhere in the third world where a star, for one fleeting moment, coaxed a girl out of her spiritual and sexual mundanity and into his world forever.

forever isn't hyperbole. that's the thing about energy signatures. once they permeate, once they land, they never really go away––especially the superhuman, transcendent ones. these leave indelible scars on the human psyche, particularly female psyches––which, unlike their male counterparts, are shells, thoroughly amenable to energetic imprint, positive or negative.

so where does our leading girl retreat to in the darkness of the nite, long after the sun has set? what can she do in the wake of this energetic exchange––the contrast between his world and hers defined now so clearly, evinced so patently, so stark, so overwhelming?

where does a four go after she's accessed, gotten a taste of, a ten, however ephemerally––in the wake of an energetic exchange she was never supposed to have?

what will she feel now when she and her fiancé make love hmm? what thought patterns will surface now as she tastes her fiancé's lips again, peripherally evaluating his early onset 'dad bod' in the cold lite of day, now that she's gotten a taste of something so much better?

when she wakes beside her 'soulmate', i wonder if she'll yet find his snoring endearing. will his absent six pack be yet attributable to his tireless work ethic and lack of time because he's such a good provider? or i wonder if that lie on automatic repeat now begins to quietly recede into a distant corner of her mind.

there is an out. she can train herself to forget. her supernatural capacity for self–induced amnesia and cognitive dissonance––the prototypical female art form––having worked once, twice, infinite times before, will save her from herself again.

because even before the li(t)es of the arena have faded, her retroactive mitigation strategy is already in play.

can you see her now, communing with her heartbroken fiancé in the early hours of the next morning––her eyes saccading around their makeshift living room, a gesture strategically ostensive of overpowering thoughts and emotional disquietude––as she affirms to him that what she has with him is real, that she was drunk, and that she cherishes him for who he is on the inside!, for his kindness and generosity and undying loyalty, blah blah you know how this story goes.

can you see her.

as she begins a rehearsed diagnosis of their present impasse, let her words––infused with that prototypical female inaneness you've come to know so well––fade into a bleary, distant backstory of your awareness.

for the first time in your life, i want you to focus now on her furrowed brow. allow yourself to contemplate the contrived corrugations on her forehead, effectuated to signal spiritual perturbation and emotional vulnerability and an intellectual depth that isn't there. note the masterful subtlety of the accentuation of her gaze––genetically and epigenetically perfected over eons across infinite lineages and distant geographies, every immaculate detail of her physiognomy premeditated to evince purity so unrelentingly.

he's confronting her now, straining all of his cognitive faculties to summon a challenge to her pathological revisionist history.

she's responding to his accusations, her cheeks failing to suffuse with characteristic color as she fails to 'recall' the 'details' of her 'experimental', horizontal college years––her perpetual drug-induced stupor, the litany of virile fraternal boys (and girls) she rode into bouts of ecstasy once upon a time––revealing a cognitive dissonance so compulsive, so surreal.

she answers emotionally that she wasn't even attracted to him!, that physical appearances don't matter to her anymore, and that she has 'matured' beyond 'superficial' trivialities like physicality, which are fleeting and inane. contemplate the waxing and waning forms of her lips as she (tsk tsk) effortlessly cognitively pushes back memories of all the physically endowed men she pursued and sucked and fucked and loved when she was younger, hotter, tighter.

can you palpate the relief in her awareness that her beta bux has not accumulated the requisite sexual history (n=1.5) to evaluate the size of her vaginal canal contextually-–rendering this variable wonderfully irrelevant? and even if he were able to make the requisite discernments, love transcends trivial variables like sexual history, duh.

she pauses now, her gaze deadening for a moment, her pupils bearing down upon a distant corner of the room––a contrived, evolved intelligence-signaling behavior designed to convey her vulnerability, her omgz unmitigated emotional desperation, her victimhood. watch her gesticulate exaggeratedly as she enumerates her soulmate's myriad virtues to him in succession––the preeminent ones among these being his 'integrity' and 'generosity'. notice how her gaze softens as she recites all of his socially endorsed 'inner qualities' in a vacuous outpouring of cliché––the euphemistic subtext of which confirming his voluntary enrollment into emotional and psychic enslavement.

 

not long from now, like clockwork, she will be telling him that she loves him, and that she will love him for the rest of their lives, until the end of time. that 'they' can 'overcome' this (her failures are shared with him––her successes are her own). and her swarthy husband to be––confronting her palpable affection for him and apparently sincere desperation (himself perhaps not destined to win catch of the year any time soon)––will persuade himself that she was just having a 'fun time' and acting 'silly'. he will tell himself the lie that what they have is real.

and what she will bury-–what she will try to tuck away thoroughly forever––is the truth. her awareness that the only thing that was ever real was the pre–cum effluent secreting into her black lace cheekies as she communed with a star on stage last nite in a dark arena filled with fog. a star with whom both she and her fiancé could never hope to compete, energetically, physically, spiritually, existentially, whatever.

...her masterful, preemptive contemplation of the backstory she memorized and recited so mercilessly sincerely. the efficacy of the lies she danced, the ensuing victimization performance she staged. the vulnerable and innocent desperation act she feigned. the certain inevitability of the forgiveness she never craved––the assured pardoning of her lactating, ineffectual beta bux who plays at four inches and change..

all men in 'love' only have to ask is, who would she be fucking if she was hot enough to have anyone she ever wanted?

the female psyche quietly gets high off of sins unredeemed, transgressions unsurfaced, unreconciled, buried away forever.

even as it professes to adore you, it is always privately evaluating, appraising, making plans to upregulate––all whilst publicly pretending to be lost in a dark scary forest on the precipice of tragedy. there is no resonance, no elegance, no enduring spirit in that game––only the tides of waxing and waning lust, the (presumed) inevitability of biological degradation, and the desire to capitalize on youthful beauty and the attention of alpha fux before the lites go out forever..

(pretty) girls learn to hate me fast because i can articulate their psychic playbooks like they breathe.

amethyst is the chromatic intermediary between red and blue––someone call morpheus..

cupid never wielded a bow but a nepenthe..

LS

pee es. to the dumpy feminazi cunt collective whose worldview i just collapsed, no, i’ve never had my heart broken.. 😈

morphological proclivities.

should i pursue punctuation on this medium? is it overrated? is it a prerequisite for perfection? languages are fallen modalities. language will always fail at consummately capturing, metaphrasing, paraphrasing, encapsulating, bladdy blah blah the ineffable tides of divine creation.

the moment you label me you negate me. kierkegaard (maybe, lolzz).

apply the latter's commentary to every resonant, perennial theme––if you've even tried to explicate any of these you've already profoundly failed. why should any of us conform to an orthodoxy that no longer elevates, serves us. there's a reason christ had to speak in parables. no one he was communing with was even proximate to where he was––they just weren't energetically there. he was doing the best he could to convey selected themes within the constraints of a broken modality––the language aramaic, assuming the historical consensus is accurate.

do you have any idea how uncomfortable an incomplete person feels next to a complete person hmm? ever notice how fast ugly girls learn to hate pretty girls?–-the requisite pretexts for their resentment and their own existential validations will always enter scene, rite on schedule, forever and always, until the end of time.

if a single punctuation mark waylays me, i'll deprive it of its existence. grammar is a human implement founded on a pragmatic concern for clarity, not truth. i'll let the scyophantic editors, critics have their grammatical masturbations as they desire in the years to come. i take my cues from Priscian. perhaps i'll dabble in both orthodox and heterodox semantic and lexical styles as i feel compelled, in intuitive proportions and prudent allocations.

LS

 

pee es. lucid dreamt for the first time ever last nite. 😈