Smooth fold bubbling to surface pop all of my insides come out staining bark motley hues these are my ashes wet and ready ooze leaving goosebumps as hot water runs out droplets collecting down wrinkled toes it all sags water logged dripping porcelain cracks door slides chipped grout looking fogged morning dew pulling leaves collecting rent can’t pay these bills chirping echos against bark shit washes down the drain windshield stains outlines of impact thunk a muffled scream but that’s not me only a thin veneer except wittled down to fester again here again puff all of my insides not ready but it goes on a swelling wait slowly moment to moment the same swelling or is it worse does it matter everything ennui having to pick which wrapping fits to seize the day or maybe tomorrow when finally I’ll burst emptying down the drain keeping tendrils away from all this once was me no longer short stubbly ends in orb like words absorb

I don’t check all the boxes. Kept inside a little box, taken out whenever I want, lights all blur through the glass, see clearly now, see here–

“A real glint this dawn peeks, say?” questions asked receive answers such as “You too” or “Say, fine glint” or “Fine” or “I don’t know”

Never ask what’s dripping behind counters taping what comes out at night looking lack luster without a dim or dew or grunt to squabble together how come two hours later everyone has gone through motions again pane by pane everything two shades of muddy brown lapping waves pulling my apart from the rest. Every morning I consume, only to spew it all eight hours later, let strength recuperate over night, & then with a jolt there’s light & heat & my insides churn, but no legs to crawl with

It’s this linear experience that happens to be coincidental, a by product of correlating past sensory input into actionable output to optimize future sensory input. It seems like such an impossibility that this universe should even produce the correct stability to evolve such a mechanism, yet only such universes which have such stability will evolve such mechanisms, so any mechanism which perceives this much has passed through survivorship bias. This exact argument applies to the inordinate ratio of sperm which will never grow consciousness

“I wanted to be able to see everything from within my own home,” I explain when asked about the architecture, ending with the punchline, “so I bought a VCR”

Let me describe the physical sensory input of a malfunctioning mind: figures are coming in, we’ve surpassed this year’s projected rates…

Back to consciousness: at some point a system becomes self aware, begins to record that it is self aware, begins to reflect on the current state relative to the past state. This is where survivorship bias becomes perceptible. For a million consciousnesses, so many hundres of thousands will fall. Yet some small selection will go on to write about their success. This will be for future victims to take on the hope of being the survivor. So our great fortune only means anything when we become capable of having been that not-yet-survivor being, whereas we don’t quite identify as having ever been sperm, because we can’t relate with today’s sperm, whereas we can sit back & interchange information with the present’s probably-won’t-survive entities. & that’s why we have to tell ourselves that we’re better than them

This all applies to whichever area of the globe you happened to born into as well

…so here we are, we nailed all the lottery numbers that landed us at the spot where we’re eligible to enter the next lottery, & now we’ve struck the next bit of lottery numbers. At this point we should rationalize this existential fortune by claiming that this was the result of hard work, careful attention to optimize our outputs & maximize our inputs. Bullshit. Instead there’s an input that my mouth is going dry, like I’m going to get sick, only I feel this more often than I feel sick, so really getting sick for me feels like this, not the other way around. Like all these rolls were high, yet somehow this irrelevant low roll has fouled it all. There’s a tiredness that’s behind the eyes. It’s these periods where attempting to focus doesn’t stick, time slides on by

There’s a pull between system potential & system capability. Everything built to code, but it’s about when the sun rises just right, refraction glitters across the wall, or window, hard to tell the difference. & then that minute is up, & the glass becomes dull. Still magnificence, & yet..

All the while putrid in a bog experiencing this, wondering, why is it that we’re bounded to a single reel of sensory feedback? Oh what efficiency it’d be if sensory feedback was distributed, that I might share the fruits, & others might know this bitter fruit I’ve spent years tending. I ask myself: why do I want to propagate perceptions of this existence? Poof

while laying awake thinking back over what decisions I failed to optimize adequately in the past, what was then not yet adequately modeled for, oh if I could only send back modern schematics, back then it was such a naive model, my systemizing so jejune. But now it’s too late, my optimizing agency has lost plasticity with specialization, identified goals locked in. To rewire this now is hardly worth the time, the outputs continue to survive beyond reproach, at least when it comes down to externally imposed metrics. If only these metrics included what to do about this hollow feeling in my intestines. Everything falls out of focus

From here you can see the whole city. Or at least all that matters. Watch people you’ll never meet. Try to determine how much of a survivor they are. If they’re happy with what they’ve got. If they’ve eaten enough in the last hour. If they’re in a hurry to get somewhere else, anywhere but here, or if they’re lounging about, as if their whole purpose is complete in these few moments that their lounging on a bench is observed from behind your lenses

Timeless design yet without constant wooing I’ll fall apart, squares falling against squares, all that’s left is skeletal lingering waiting for the buckling when these exposed insides are all rusted out from being left out all growing colder just another tombstone asking maybe this’ll be remembered but at least you scaled well enough when blindfolds were involved in giving that last kick from the past into this inspired era where yesterday’s innovation has become cliché only relish that for when afterwards no one bother’s to even notice the new normal we’ve become

Sight from a bridge: sun was setting, it should’ve been eclipsed, but it shone through, leaving question of is there anything there or is my lens to your lens

In the wake of sentient abstraction everything became simpler, identity so passé, take what you can get, anything that can will, time is only a matter of bandwidth, latency, no need to step on glass in a rush for the door, without identity democracy is no different than oligarchy, decisions aren’t so much singularly decided on rather the decision evolves from what goal has gathered the most power to fuel cracking the whip to further the goal until the only thing being whipped is an obsolete horse

Travel is much simpler when you’re only a message in a bottle. What is the message? It was first exposed through a book in a book, this meme that reality is revealed, that psyche is memory reacting to new information, this reaction is the result of interlacing information to discover truth, only missing piece is motive, why simulate a search for this wayward tightrope’s limit, what necessary sequence of information is necessary to keep the destination polling for more, meanwhile maximizing the irrational dread, why irrational? If you were any bit rational you’d tie the knot in setting a goal, but here it is left mixing goal oriented with doubting goals, without expected value there is no incentive to change, without expected value why are you pursuing the goal? aimless. Time goes on, have to do something, do you?

This is not inertia when things start for one reason & continue for another, it’s just paradigm shifts & scaling out, you shift in your seat without changing chairs, some new sustenance has to keep the charade going, 1 2 2 4 2 4 2 4 6 2 6 4 2 4 6 6 2 6 4 2 6 4 6 8 4 2 4 2 4 14, “is this a quote?”, thinking back to how sick I thought I was going to get sick makes me sick, “that’s a good one there, clean off the pavement”, torn left exposed to rain darkens complexion there is still disorder endured because it’s nothing, “why what does it matter? that it means anything to you at all, then that’s something for nothing,” these are the promises left behind while coughing up yesterday’s dinner, looking for a couple of quarters, hard to put two & two together without incentive

This is my nature, pieces of me left out in the rain, some days rain seems like a matter of semantics, it can be felt, but it’s like some crooked simulation, the state deemed to irrelevant to store, then the rain is only a passing feeling, a haze

It’s getting back in after sending over a bottle of wine & wanting to pour out but these hands hold the face together so that it all stays in practice, these feelings that you could just curl up & decompose into a dozen more you’ll call yourself in the morning after the kids have been put away so the carving can continue, dishing out what all started from being bumps on a log, what a life to have grown, it started with a hacking cough dripping wet like gurgling gravel where afterwards everything’s just as sore only now there’s nothing more to do it’s done the mess left all over yourself but there’s no change of clothes this too will dry, then it starts all over, dry heaving, as if you haven’t given enough already, there’s always room for one more, just convulse a little harder this time, makes all the dead eyes on you come alive, like this is something real because it’s something unusual to them, but this is everyday, just another day in the life

Her eyes open as her mind closes off from last night, long flight, where everything that’s big down here looks small, hardly visible, megameters passed & the only thing that stuck out was some pink lit rooftop, unexplained in the middle of the desert, an artificial beacon in otherwise lifeless. Her eyes still open, they now close. In this artificial darkness there is rainbow noise. Is it tingling or aching or searing or splitting? The aspect of remembering is that it includes the action as a form of quoting. This recursive structure is built upon this verb: quoting. It is the opposite of reification. But in another way this quoting process suggests that the current perceived reality is lacking reification. That what has been labelled the end is only the end within these quotes. “I already see this clearly” she mutters, “this quoting fits itself into the same space it existed in before, signal compression moves towards two extremes: noise & quote, one five “the fool folds his hands together & eats his own flesh”, this is my sustenance, five hours into the flight I was asked “fly often?” to which I replied “Friend of mine always says “More often than I’d like” when asked that” so she asked me “Oh, is this cliché?” looking a bit embarrassed so I was thinking “Oh here I’ve gone & done it again, “the best way to throw a game is to point at it”” so broke out a smile and oozed “No, it’s my fault, there’s nothing cliché about saying hello” it seemed to succeed, relief swept, but maybe this was only accepted so easily because it’s a desirable out, because the issue with quotation is that it breaks the tempo, once that’s loss nothing feels natural anymore, but maybe that’s the reality seeping in, is it really natural how the ooze liquified her bones, her skin bruising away without me having to lay a finger, left me feeling like I wouldn’t need another meal for a week by the time I got off the plane”

“Have you heard? Another meaningless death today. What could these all mean?”

“No, not yet, at least for me, what’s the causal link between what something means & what something causes? What a thing means to do or what a thing has already done? Into perpetuity it marches on. Why grasp at knowledge, we only understand the ordered partition of this line of existence, only remember the side of things where the structure exists still within our mind, but consider: when it happens, the imprint in the mind of what disorder is coming together absorbs this disorder, as the thing is real now, no longer an imprint, & in this way you are conscious of everything in reverse, what you believe has happened is only what is right in front of you, everything is falling together, & it is only that we forget what has happened when it occurs. You’re a mechanism which only experiences things insofar as is necessary for you to claim to have experienced things”