[A man wanders down a set of dryly dusted rusting railroad tracks. A clear sky and flat horizon venture above the brim of his eyebrows...but he does not see his backdrop. He bobs his eyes with the motion of his hastily laced tennis shoes, watching as the plastic aglet faints in color in skewed stress lines as every other step throws it beneath the thickly duct taped sole, fraying what could have been bundled together for miles. The railroad ties make only hollow patters, but the ashed gravel sieves through itself and crunches with a syncopated rhythm that only the man keeps track of. He counts sporadically in his head.] God No god I dont just get it I got it dont just sniff it I snort it No city, just sun just me, just one chicken and pig on the thigh bacon and eggs on the legs they're dying at sea I am the waves holes in the knees, don't whistle they sigh not given, just guide stumble they choose, trained like caboose, sitting like suits, game on its two fools, it's no duck just goose goose, ground down they couscous, cold I fix them muesli, loosey goosey, not stiff, but dead they do be. hit em with the pew pew through and through, they goo, juice, sluice, antabuse, they boof I poof the stuff they deuce is boost, old ass news, loose the belts, boot, no fuel, oh gee the boujee laying down or standing up if they stains they got the mop yeah they sung, dung, rolled up on, jesus piece they met their god Im on the top like waco bitch bottom out she the bank roll Grind it up, shove it in, get the papers, get the pen, get the sword, and get the All and tell them this ain't it. (Came from water, came from space, came from metal, sink in the same, think of the same thing I came from the space that you called the eternal, came from nocturnal, came from the day, came to the conclusion I've never been…came from the same, came from the all, Not able to say, No cane and I'll stay, No way to explain what I've seen. Came from the sea, Athene, came from the old, infinity, trifold, no trinity…) [He clears his throat to get the thought out he's also trying to clear. "Why am I here?" He continues his rhythm, his walk, and his thoughts. The sun has not yet dipped below the horizon, but has emboldened itself with an orangish hue. It seems to sit and stare at the man, he walks along the tracks without pause as he views. The landscape is Saharan, barren-like, yet canyons dot the land. As if, the railroad would converge into, dive into the once reddend before ever meandering onto, say, a rickety wooden bridge. It never does either. The tracks, they are the plateau of a steep ridge of black gravel, ferrous sand, the tenebrous esker does not waver; its base is flat with its only elevation… blemishes… shrubbery, sage, white ash. Small animals seem to flash by the man, but he gives only cordial acknowledgements. He wanted to avoid them using pleasantries.] (only affinity to the biology, my philosophy, if no one speaks it isn't divinity. It's too told, I have no query… It's all a facade, You're all calling to your God out in this desert, yet you're paupers still—with people problems. Draining. Stereotypical archetypal lyrics, no practicality. Without practical thoughts pushing it beside itself, would I practically bear the practical thought of living out a rainbowed reality without other practical people?) [They ignore him. So solemnly bent, He thinks how easy it must be for them to do so, as they have needs to be met by only themselves and no others should interfere. He thinks that this is how all thoughts should be until his own contrarianism supplies a curious counterpoint in a paradoxical cataclysm. What if when death is needed to be met? The man wonders if Death has already passed him while he was absorbed in the desire to have personality reflected at him but only through minimal interaction...but he would have trapped himself with death by now…] (Two journeys I am taking now. One, for my emotional self. Two, for that outside of myself. I choose my words carefully, as I believe truth is the utmost importance for me. I feel as though my life has been a set of decisions already decided up until this point. I have given those that were in my environment and still subside upon and in my environment a power of authority, and I believe everything in my power is to be an authority. It is not what I seek though. It is knowledge above all else, and with that statement, I know that I know nothing. To satiate my emotional self I must return in both a symbolic and physical way to where my emotional self wants to leave. I need no symbolism, nor misrepresentation. To give way to falsehoods destroys the path of my free will. I can only be just me.) [The man walks the railroad tracks, wondering why he must be. Why he is thinking such dismal thoughts with such a beautiful sunset. He knows it is necessary to think about it. That's what everyone says. They say we miss the dead. The man has cried for the dead many times, but now he walks. He thinks. The Man has cried to himself today. His face tells the sun that only some light should escape through his pores, he must retain the liquid like a blister, until he can finish what he started. The Railroad has all but disappeared…the walking stays in rhythm, and the gravel becomes crusted soil and tumbleweeds.] It really was It really was It was me the whole time It was not what I thought Two times, Two lines, it really was It really was scant in my dosses my quibble with causes Discant with no pauses placate the retrace Ablate enate stanzas Yet plausible clauses advances no chances allegory aweary, to the contrary, gone past expiry A story to tell, tower to climb Tracers to see, sour I fell Baseless, low sell Faceless, toes shelled Traceless, don't tell a drop in a well Two times, two lines It really was It really was What was that? What I said it was [The Man looks at the tan desert, the dry ricegrass surrounding his locus with no desire to move forward lest he grow the seeds in his socks through weeds he would travel in. Oh how he would grow it so fondly until it poked his skin, then he would rip it out of the twill. His journey was all forward. Yet, he turned around, just to make sure the spindles rattling to the floor was not the teasing pause before thunder—where he faced was almost unbounded. A portal surrounded by Water. "What would one face being there?" He asks himself. His answer: "I can only always be here"] (My Color has faded fast like using dish detergent in hair, color tint remover my ascension, ain't no nair. From wrist cupper to knot knitter, a little wrist left, right now for slitter. I'll fit her better everytime you bring her up, fit it in every hole could call me grout—and them only rhyme on out and about shit. Not a mirror, It's here media. From a Cartesian Stage I speak at you. You want everyone to look into an impossible world and come out with only the ideas you deemed false and non-starting, but that impossible world is a world, not your grasp of a set of entities, but the set. The entire set. I can do what I want in your world as much as you. I am saying that I have no blame, I have no contrition, nothing to atone for, I’m here because I’m me. I don’t play that fucking game, there’s no syllogism or predication...no blood was shed for all men if some men are not saved...you are you, of no consistency, and I’m me. The only me. And My only Mill is my mouth.) You're God? Nah. No, No, No, you're just you, and I...I am just...Me

Metaphysics ain't no excuse for your pseudoscience--theology. No gods exist in your mind, no conspiracy--lying. Any you don't fucking exist in mine. I am Me. Prefatory guiding, no parapsychology, necessity, this is real philosophy. Not trying, dying, I am on. No edifying, Theatre reified, I am mine. Always on, I am Me, I'm always on, the stage. Always on, Automaton, I'm always on, Intuition, I'm always on. Where's the beginning? Where's the beginning? I don't know. I don't know. No They. All ways, omnidirectional ways weighs every decision, and I am always on, I'm always I-

Got propaedeutic qua prolegomenon Don't need Theogony or the Pantheon, you need my scholion I don't roll viridian I roll electrum, only tomentum, No centrum still fuckin stygian cyprians like it's quotidian You're just a corrigendum, no fundamentum. I'm Successor, your cosmogony is momentum, Yeah I send em’, No anti-foundationalism, No sisyphus, prometheus, nemesis, ness-ity is cryptolect so substratum, no neoplatonism, no neopragmatism, no post-structuralism, No perennialism, No Summum bonum. got me strapped like amentum, got my strap on pudendum. No Proclus, Cronus, Meletus, theomacy, I’m Me, No metonymy, No Irony. I inveigh, Psuedogap, No freeplay Hecate with the threeway Feet straight I’m planking Could be hanging Can't keep my cuts closed So I T-pose like I’m Jesus but not specious, No Zeus, No Pseudo-Dionysus, catachresis, I'm ecphonesis, you pure anaclisis, a mimesis, No abyss. No difference. You repressive,You depressive, You the mass's mope, I'm mass's hope, I’m mass’s dope, but mass's trope got that mass myope, got the masses to elope with a thought What’s a thought to a god if a thought is a trick What’s a trick to a thought if I think that I am God The word was god, now it is thought The word was god, now it is thought The word was god, now it is thought The word was god, now it is thought I’ll turn a thought into my body I’ll use a shotty as a belt Buck into a bitch make em scatter Like Calcium, leave it in her bladder Hit her up so hard on the DL She gets wet just logging into gmail Cat call a government official, make a pussy whistle, leave her altricial Imma make her pussy sigh till I’m in it Only keep my wrists dry when I’m in it Make a pussy cry when I'm in it You want those regular paychecks I got that regular paid sex And she ain’t gonna trade it, she ain’t gonna barter, scarper She ain’t gonna turn it out on me, she ain't Calliope, I ain't Ares. Not a fissle for I, me, here see? I shoot swizzle my ops spill like you piffle, beam po pose drivel you ride, I sit distal, I Home, No Fide, No Fodor, I Kant, I Hardt, Man I drop with the op art Gotta wash my clothes with a running start Can’t wash my clothes with the blood dark But I gotta washboard on my track marks Butcher the Garden with that cut cut Call my drug dealer to collect that cut cut Crack a clam, put in pearl, no cut fuck No gut, I'll cut to fuck, I'm he-she she polo, I pull in no endo no, I’m swerve, no curvin though When you say Indigo children but sound of baseless millenarian, using escapism to escape the trend, that’s self-falsification. conspiracist of self-perception, no expansion just suppression. Hitting on windmills an obsession. You obsessive, you digressive, you guessive, You Ponty, Sartre, Pointing, Ryle Regressive...I finesse it, I crescive, ostensive, I educe but its always pas-de-deux need cachou, nu-wave shoo, who's who is traduce, you're bad shit like il duce, reducing, no deuces, I'll introduce preliminary questioning abridged to abstruse So abstrused, so abstrused, so abused so abused, anxiety of influence You're sordid, sorted sleuths. landscaping the proofs, weeding out untruths. (kierkagaard) I’m rubbing out these deep fakes like a facade masseuse. Ignoring my thoughts like that shit my body Body my thoughts like I’m nobody Drag a fake fuck by his dead body I’ll turn a thought onto my body I’ll spin that shit right around Ignoring my thoughts like that shit my body Body my thoughts like I’m nobody Drag a fake fuck by his dead body I’ll turn a thought onto my body I’ll spin that shit right around Stay seated, no fitra, no ascetist, no nativist or empiricists Like Fuck Anaximenes, Fuck Neitzche, Didn't further shit, Fuck Sartre, Fuck Pinker, I’m Lukacs on some Chomsky bitch, Fuck Leibnez, Fuck Bourdeiu, Fuck Bergson, Im him on some Unger shit, Fuck Bertrand, Fuck Jaspers, Fuck that Dewey on Weber shit Fuck Hexis, No praxis, habitus and some doxa’s shit Fuck Fichte, Fuck Marx, Fuck herder unless he on that spinozist, Go Camus, Get Heraclitus on a Hegal bitch Fuck The Real, Fuck Orthopraxy, Fuck The Imaginary, Nothing precedes, Aboutness something, marsupial space splitting, I am one thing, only me is me So low spoke inclines, I spoke lines after spoke lines with O3 and OE, no money Use of comminatory is the story of every lapidary, Propitiatory to minatory is anything pecuniary. I spoke lines after spoke lines with O3 and OE, I'm no donee. You live a life of an OG only through Allegory. Ain't even fucking apophrades I’ll turn a thought into my body I’ll turn my body right around I’ll turn a trade to a barter I’ll turn a face away from me I’ll turn a raid into a martyr I’ll turn a scream to no sound I’ll turn a burn to a break I’ll turn a straw into a trach I’ll turn into a maker, effort, baker, see cake forever I'll turn a laser I’ll turn to a ghost I’ll discern tension from an ache I’ll turn a shoulder I’ll turn a fake to the most I'll turn a thought into my body Body hold me up like shotty, no orate shoddy, abut uncut, body gestalt Call it all polysememes, money or reality. Never an episteme, all’s a dream--immutable theme, immanent enthymeme. Self-conception, Do I throw Multistable perception on perception (Now where's reality?) or is that just me?

Monactinal Monaxonic, monaxonial axiom, it's axiomatic, yeah, axiomatically automatic atomic reaction, it's tertiary, I expend it and then spend it, spin it back onto its axle and drive till I total it—the low mallet, calico cromagnon, solved isolated segmentation, I cloaked daggers for crack dens, still focused like cracked lense. I Got some scars on my veins, got more scars on my legs, got some scars on my name, God I'm considering to blood let all the same. every slit wet, need a sponge to play this game. No trifold in front I just trifold on the set I trifold any problem, trifold any bet. I'm backed in, I'm loaded, I lack zen, no lozenge, I drop sick. Wet fools, wet tools, wet ghouls, wet kools, wet shoes, So high I’m Thule, she wet like pool, no kids, I’m mule, no keel got heel, get wet and I’m ill. I bool, I’m Boole, it's cool. I get it. Like suess, she loose, Im splittin. I seduce, So Deus, but sit it. Woke up one day and sent it. Is I is I, I is I is so I am as is as is is I. I is, I am I. I am just God, I am just me. I am just better at showing face. I got to bleed. I got to stunt. I gotta screed but Im chasing that gasket, I’ll fuck what I want… I got the shot, accuracy; clinamen fettered and setting pace. Yeah its just me. Always a front. I got the weed but it’s laced like a basket, so fuck what you want…

Im misinformed, the forms that formed forms formed me, No, the forms that formed from forms are what form from me. No form to form from, no rule of thumb to form to or form of. It doesn't matter that matter matters and if matter mattered before matter was formed if form formed matter, it matters if form formed matter just as if matter formed before form, but matters don't form from form...so what matter is first, and does it matter?

[Pudgala Dharma, Adharma, Pudgala Pudgala, Kala, Lokakasha, Akasha Alokiakasha, Akasha Alokiakasha Ajiva, Jiva] I'm just a jester not a critic, but two things of opposite can exist, that's superpositioned, it's unknown because people think perception's inherent, can't have birth and death if matter is bereft, if we come of matter, what is death but inherent? Inerrant or errant, Undetermined is just agnostic. Adherent or aberrant, children just must grow out of self-actualization-- maybe I'm just being caustic, but if a soul dies, that’s just me misunderstanding the prima facie? Achieve siddhashila, Jivatman marana, if kevala jnana is intrinsic what is paroksa? Oppose creationism with five God's apparent Arihants live life's they already knew we're inherent I don't want peace, I want excitement. To be and to achieve is evil, okay. I think every spiritual journey ends in decay or in reification it dies. To believe is Jiva A man stands still in the middle of a road. A four-lane road, approaching a 4 way stop. It has sidewalks. Street lamps, street signs, traffic lights. The man does not move, he thinks. There is no one around him. There are red brick houses stacked sideways behind the sidewalks. They do not move either. The man says out loud, "This place is strange". Silence continues. The man walks forward with pain developing in his ankles, a pain that contorts his face to frustration. The man approaches the center of the crossroads. The man does not know where to go. Ahead of the man lies the same worn path he saw before he approached this split decision. The man looks to his right and sees buildings shorter than the rest; they have breaks in-between, alleys. They have awnings, possibly storefronts, maybe something in the daytime would be displayed—flowers, possibly. The man tries to disinterest himself from this path, so he looks to the left. Down this street is only that of street lamps and sidewalks, as if nothing developed past the start of the street. It is not ominous, but protrudes a sense of thoughtlessness. This does not interest him anyway. The man realizes, he should not stand in the middle of the road this late at night. [Ajiva, Jiva] What the fuck is asceticism? I want to hear that whataboutism, not some definition, I'm the one writing polemic decadence like I'm into leninism, I just want to know why reaction’s inherent. Circumspect splendor, corrylium for the soul, kill one in pleasure, nastikya mountain to voidist molehill. I want Maya, Advaya, and you get abhavya, but here I still am above you in samasara. Hahaha.

I believe fallibilism pervades society to our core, though I align with neopragmatists, I know belief in being right has the universe on a course. Of course, you mean to be ablative of the notion of an objective question that's circumstance circumferences reality and that a human whose philosophy of the answer to that conjured yet aggregated question should be invalidated as a search. What does change come from? And before you start—I don't deal in empirical bases except in retort— So, if false implications cause time to move forward...and the objective or subjective self revealed to time the misgivings...would time go back to change that from happening?

(yeah) If God can't be understood, then God must be death. If everyone had a reason to live, doesn't that mean someone's reason is no reason? Even to be meta-extrapolative, I always thought I never had a reason. I've always been the bystander, even in the event of my own demise, a third person visual like another pair of eyes. If you got a big smile, you gotta big mouth. You think dialectical, can't define life without death. I don't want no monad but I can have life without death; I am a man and life is what I get, so why wouldn't I seize it from the feeding hands? I think I'm hungry, that's why I'm always eating. Like chewing, The visual is visceral, I and you the only two, we're not living residual we're breaching metaphysical, the drive and fool, can't have the screw without a screwdriver, can't have a tool without a fool right by him, can't have a tool without some fool driving. And driving, I'm stuck with eyes on the road but I still will. Ho tell it. Sum up what you want, but that means you toe towel it. In any positive position I think I'm the god I make me. Any set, I am the God that made me. Only way I'm gonna die is if I do me.

(backwards) It seems space around me is only relative If I can see everything? What now bounds me? Why does my soul doubt? Where will I go? I am Eternal, what do I do now? No tasks at hand now, How do I kill time?

Do you remember when I jumped the gun and jumped out of the truck to just roll and run? Yeah. Do you remember the swerve I took just to avoid colliding with your sprint’s direction? I like that we reminisce about unique events that are dying for social reward. And what do you think trust is but a drive to experience life two-fold? Well, that must mean people persons are the most full lived in life, right? Do you think anything extrapolates when the base is zero multiplied. Maybe politicians are the largest of those types, but what of activists that need only a single gripe, Their base is none or only one, and they grow in size like a fruit begins to ripen. But they die in time, and will idle to idolize their own lies as progress begins to stipend… What of random key figures, whose talents are numerous but in history is unremembered? When they delve so far into something the world only wants to describe as a word. That’s just digression, and we do it all the time… That is digression, and when we continue to do so, we all die. But birth cycles back to make sure we build on life. Birth doesn’t recycle or refresh, but it must go forward, with death a mesh No, death is a mess, and life a test, birth must be for the best What is this conversation though if all we do in life is address and catechize Why? Because both you and I want to be him I don't see how killing him would do that I understand without context that makes sense, but look at it this way If he made this amount of bad happen, and you and I could do this over in his place, we could both weigh in with each other how to make things the best they can be… But how does killing him make us him? He kills, he kills us all the time. We even have written evidence. But you can make that shit up, and even if I wanted to join you in taking his place, what of when we have an argument over a fundamental and urgent task or ideal. But we won't, because we will know it all. What? How? Information infuses...he’s the most powerful, and thus his death would diffuse power and release information, us the receivers. But why are we the receivers? Because we get the control we take from him, energy transfers. But how does killing him make us do that, he may be him, but how does that make us like him? Well, we can either sit here and inquire, or we can do it and I can show you? Not only do I think you can't, but you won't, you like your life how it is now and won't do something so stupid to change that. What do you mean? He controls your life more than mine, hence why you are defending killing him. Of fucking course I'm defending killing him, not only do I know him, but no life is worth taking. And he doesn't control me. Yeah...no life is worth taking if you didn't create a world with life’s both worth and not worth taking, and you don't know him, you've never even fucking met him. Bullshit, fuck you I've seen what he's done plenty, I like it and he's fine… Fuck you, you know what I've been through, this life has been fucked for me, and you've had it fucked but your confirmation bias is making you say this dumb bullshit. Life can be good, but it can be better. Yeah, but how do we do it? He's the one who knows how to make it better. I know what to do and how to make it better. Prove it. Let's kill him then. Is trust a must or mission or fuss, when will it wither away to dust? Well precisely so, the question is friend or foe, but will that question be the initial throw? No, it's crazy to open in it like that, but lazy not to hint and track where all the truths in them do lie, what if all they told was a lie? And what if so, do you go toe to toe, do you let them go, or just let it grow? I have no clue, why need two, if the crossroads lead to a brand new three? Well where's the one, it leads to three, but if the intro isn't none, and consequently must be one, the choice is really really gone. Long and drawn, the answers don't dawn, but chosen between like right and wrong. One is two, but you must have three, you've truly drawn a faux dichotomy. So if I plead, that truth need said, do I expect the worst and live till I’m dead. Why don't you test what in life is jest, and show me how I will egest. You make some sense, but socratic at best, I guess I don't know what to expect. A pupil you are, and the teacher is me, am I right to say that is what you've preconceived? I would guess a yes, but two say wrong, so three will be the mystery of my draw… So what if I’m the only one taking part in this divulging dialogue. The man wonders why this epiphany has dawned on him; Not a soul seems present. The man veers forward and to the right, looking for a stop sign to lean against on the corner. The man's pace slackens as he tries to stretch his arm out. Prodding in the boundary between the luminescence and blackened cloud for a cold piece of metal the man thinks to himself: "Why does the thought of resting give me consolation?" The man's hand touches a warm wall. The man's pain absolves. The man leans against it, choosing to not sit yet. The man is happy...staring out at the crossroads from the small veil of darkness over the back half of him. The man feels as if he is just out of the spotlight, remembering as little of what lead him there as if it would keep him standing. The wall supports him. It's warm, cannot do wrong, for it is a wall. It doesn't have the capacity. The man does not have trouble as he leans. The man wonders, where did it come from...the wall? Why is it warm? Why does it support and how can a man wonder why while it does so? The man peeks as far as his vision lets him down the road he came to get here. He hears the wall tell him to go back there. "But why?", the man asks. "It has nothing to do with you, it's me." the wall says. The man sits against the wall. He thinks— 'why?' The man says "I asked why, I didn't say you were doing this to me…" The wall says in a failing stammer "We already talked about this, I don't want to talk anymore, I just want you to leave." The man says, "But we haven't talked about this, I'm not going to leave, I want to talk". The wall sputters out: "I tried to read you the note I wrote the other night, you didn't listen to me". "I did listen, I don't understand still; where is this all coming from." The man squeaks out of a closed throat. The wall solemnly states, "I've been thinking about this for a while". The man tries to slide up the wall to stand up. He falls forward as if he was pushed, but knows his legs and memory fails him. The man asks why. He asks: "If I am me and you are you, who is you?" The man asks "How can it be for you, if you are me? If you are just you, and if I am just me can it be? Between us two, even if three are present, evident or reticent, evidence is never true, if you are the only you and I am the only me, can you help me find it before it kills me? The man limps back to the crossroads, where a car with a flat tire awaits him.

(Backwards) I am eternal, what do I do now? No tasks at hand now, How do I kill time? Why does my soul doubt? Where will I go? What now bounds me? If I can see everything? It seems space around me is only relative But I can't be out of the loop…

Without dark, the sun burns out our eyes. You’re the men in the cave, I’m the bat at night. When you cry at the idea of one, I sigh and yawn at sun. My back against the wall of this open field, at least you all gather before you yield. We all know collectivism kills. Is altruism really how I die? It’s for the tribe? I find this contingency impossibly necessary. I’ve seen the bisected horizon dichotomize, sitting still in inquiry, on a rock in the mouth of the abyss. If I’m from the cave why doesn’t it now all look the same? Am I clinamen or brownian? I’ve gone from dark to iridescence and still don’t know the difference between truth and recrudescence. Born from foam, If pedesis in tautology can lead to catalyzing teleology...and I am that single perturbance, quale...I’ve solved the hard problem, and it’s all ineffable. So why are you still here, afield?

What you think the life is you all live now What you think what is a question any reason approve of What do I say to protect me from myself What is self to you since its me asking what is rhetorical, categorical, metaphorical, empirical, or just satirical, I don't move vertical I move exponentially, see the curve, yeah, that's me. Drag on like subtlety, I, dragon of prosody; rock at ready from blind, stoned the statue of fecundity. You ride it sayin give me give me give me give me but you see I am like relativity even in the microcosm, give me space and time I'm just lazy, kill me kill me now i sit me down really neatly There's not a why, where is a why, just to say do I die or do, but choosy be as choosy say, if live to live, I get it by ain't no compromise if you live forever what happens when people die

His iconoclastic view of form veridical, diacritical, semantic...Nom de plume, like taxonomy, always ready for it's norm. Mephitic, escape the room, all the gloom behind you. Sybaritic– catharsis, heartless art is antipruritic. Amassed apiece of dust and storm. (x3) And as if to misinform, with the need to conform on public platform, he'd scream: “This Theater of Absurd must epitomize what word it satirizes, for it ponders in modern times while it makes fun of what makes it inherent”. What a Keen observation. Inherence is a plight, but to be is to be perceived? Lavished in time’s provoking shadow as emotions project and participate like light. But...it's adding epicycles to transduction, he must escape this self-destruct with thinking of things-in-themselves. (His iconoclastic view of form veridical, diacritical, semantic...Nom de plume, like taxonomy, always ready for it's norm. Mephitic, escape the room, all the gloom behind you. Sybaritic– catharsis, heartless art is antipruritic. Amassed apiece of dust and storm.) For form cannot exist without matter,but to actualize is to form matter. Does form matter if not eternal? Does form need chronology? Does eternal form exist as a higher reality if idealism is opposing reality but at the same time being defined and formed as a concept in reality? If everything is composite of matter and form, how does form actualize matter? But of everything existing in bimodality, how do we experience, and that of multistable perception by proprioception or exteroception, if perception needs an observer? Assuming an observer needs something to react to actualize it, where does that something generate but from nothing which doesn't exist conceptually in itself. If form doesn't exist in itself without matter, without experience, how does one form form without inquiry of what form is? Even taxonomy makes form informal; how does solution rise of paradox, how is the pursuit of knowledge not perfectly pursued, whether not to mention what mode ranges from moral? And to form accidentally? If form is contingent, how is it possibly property without proposition? How does property only exist in speech if each is of reality? It’s process philosophy. I ask this all rhetorically.

What do I want to do? (Do I want?) What do I want to do? (Do I want?) What do I want to do? Do you know, do you know, do you know, Do you know? Do you know? How could you? looking across a stream, you're just you, I'm just me. How could you see? Society, media tells you about the world, you see. Like the people, like the crowd, like the city, like the wild of the chain gangs running along tying their lives in what is told to them is wrong. So it's a game? So it's a name? what's wrong if you're not tame, if you like what is wrong? What is long past your time? I'm trying to find what I like, what I want to die doing. Do you experience the low, the high? Is more population what makes your experience individualized? Is that digitalized eye just binding to the life, biding to the eyes? To the senses…objective life growing, finding bad and good always flowing...but it's same of every pattern known. Bored of the time I'm just questioning how...or what I want to do, to do what I should do. What's the point of the point made is what I want the point to be, the point a singular thing, not just a singularity, a nominal being or thing or thought or tinge of what is wrought...what I deserve. Is it worth the life that's been wasted in what's bought? Is this value what time I have spent to get it mopped up? Is it physical, is it taught, is it what you really want? if it is, what are you, are you what I really thought? Is it change, is it fought for? I've never really got what I'm training towards, never awards, just social standing and other's remorse? Is it whimsical, could I not care more? Is it love, is it more than I can stand for? Is it pain...is it sex, maybe satisfaction, what's it correlate to the objective connection? Never really got the best— Did I? Had the sex did I? Smoked the best did I? Hottest bitch, did I? What age am I? Trying to clue you all to what media dies when I got time to myself. Is it societal wealth that keeps me buying my time? The confiding life of finding life in a digitalized style...is it like the wild of the chain gangs running along tying their lives in what is told to them is wrong. So it's a game? so it's a name, what's wrong if you're not tame? If you like what is wrong, what is long past your time? I'm trying to find what I like, what I want to die doing. Is it lang-uage, is it the situation you're currently in? Trying not blame what choices you have made, trying to motivate the thing you is because you are you inside of this...inside of this. Inside of this. In sight of this, Insight of this is the sight of this, what's your side of this...your side is, what your side is

Vulgar⸺and sleuth. He runs the gambit as though he was the maker. In truth...had someone said at the time he was, there would be no disavowed. Yet then is now, and scraping past each paper hand with his silk scissors sorting through sights of bands, necklaces, bracelets, he found what was strangely a charming aura and projection...that sucked you into his stomach to be digested, as if each drop of bile and acid was a metal tack with a reminder of a debt jabbed on it. Each phase of his face changing, expression emanating a gold glow with green as if it was foreshadowing the extremity of his greed… So. What's behind such distracting, illusive, but individually disgusting and shallow eyes is the true thief. Is he only guilty of being that, or is there a curb or skillset that has led to it? (Does he destroy himself? Does one see the charm of it? Destruction within is charm, and ego collapses in on itself with him) On stage so very thin, and populace of them. No real viewing has taken place, and they come close together to brace the cold and help one another—but as each face starts to dry up, a veiny like discharge that seems to ossify and grapple, assembling as members of a congregation, growing like a rose vine, prickles on the epidermis, The cold murmurs make them fall into each other in a stricken panic. They, stuck forever. There is no help, no sacrifice, no way to tell what is wanted. No one survives. No one can tell, No one can see anything but what they wanted to be. It is now just me and... He is—a weeping willow in the wind, the grass around him wilted, as if he had stolen all the water...but the grass looks so soft, you want to have a seat⸺Desire.

Take God, for example, and everyone, trap them in a world foreign to either, neither believer nor equalizer could refrain from asking : Why am I here? In this world they have been killed. Stop, this is no fluke. Now, just a question, past rhetoric. Who is left? Me and You of course. Whoa, is this not what you expected…like Oh God, our beliefs mean nothing without reference? You have to get over it—God did. I am. Are you?

A cold distant truth I knew I left in the past. I started a journey forward the night you saw me last, before I broke myself in two. Then a year had passed. I thought you saw me that day at sandy beach... and had no clue what was wrong with me; the drugs and pain I made. December came, and as you helped me become a better me, I leeched something out of you that only manipulation can do. I watched you leave and didn't know what to say. All I know now, is that in life, I can only love, lie, and die. I can only be who I am—and I miss you. I guess I was looking for my broken half. I used you for that in some predestined impulse and the journey ended before I could be who I was.

Imbibing, abiding, presiding, subsiding, deciding, presiding, subsiding, describing, presiding, subsiding, residing… —Forge Placating, abating, ingratiating, dictating, debating, equating, extenuating, isolating, hesitating, invalidating, necessitating, Incapacitating. — Hide. Edifying, applying, complying. Identifying, verifying, notifying, gratifying, solidifying, unsatisfying, terrifying, dying— —Tire. I'm only gonna say this once, yo— Reborn, adorn, born, inborn, worn, forlorn, scorn, forewarn, unborn, mourn, reborn — Muse. I forge, and I hide, I tire and I muse. I’m engorged, my hide has skinned itself, I tried, and noose is not news. (Forge, hide, tire, muse. Forge, hide, tire, muse. Gyrating, I’m lying, turning and turning, churning, rotating, stopping then cycling into nothing, I’m dying.) I mired and now regorge, I lurch, poise, pose and more. I forged, hid, tired, and thought...I gorged, I bit, chose, expired. I won at any cost. I accost. (Forge, hide, tire, muse. Forge, hide, tire, muse) For I forge, and am now thought. Forge, hide, tire, muse. Forge, hide, tire, muse. When I create anew, I muse. My poised readjust, posted, poises boisterous; voices just toys of noise, poison I choose. I must, I don't choose “I am.” Forge, hide, tire, muse. Forge, hide, tire, muse. Don't choose for. (Forge, hide, tire, muse. Forge, hide, tire, muse) I'm sought No, choose "I am" Four choices (voices) I am Four, I am composed of For I am I am I am loss

It's horrifying isn't it Anaxagoras, Arcesilaus, Archelaus, Anaximenes, Amander, Prodicus, Polemo, Protagoras, Thales, Theodorus, Theophrastus, Diagoras, Diogenes, Euhemerus, Crates, Heraclitus, Crantor, Empedocles, Pherecydes, Carneades, Leucippus...The Shadow of Democritus, Pyrrho of Elis, it swerves like Lucretius or Epicurus, Ezra, Posidonius, Plotinus, Philo, Philodemus, Ennius, Velleius, Varro and Cicero, Balbus and Cotta, then Aenesidemus. Confucius, Buddha, Agrippa, Jesus, Pliny The Elder, then Marcus Aurelius...Sextus Empiricus, empirical schools that led to the nihilists. like Fuck off Speusippus, Diogenes a rat snitch, Plato some stupid bitch, give a fuck about Xenocrates, Socrates already explained what forms is— Inherence inheritance, believe all your parents. I question both you and hermias. A Posteriori, Experience? Egoism inherent from the end of Prolegomena to Pistorius. Like fuck, still don't know where the story is. Empiricists find a priori sought without seen Imperceptible, yet think their thought is presentable? Even weishaupt gave apperceptive rebuttal. Oooo… A fortiori there’s no noumenal, yet you react to phenomenon. Embed it, subliminal, no polemia suitable. In bed with a cretan, our relation ancient, Dead in Dia like automata. epiphenomenalist suspicion, I, no more than disquisition, You, blocking the sun again, with all that providence, with all that reverence, with all them gods and shit, don’t you get this shit that you is you and I am Me. You pay what is aught to read. You pay but you ought to read; Learning nothing from history. You pay what you ought to read but pay what is aught to read. I need Brevity in endless night. Do I inherently participate in life? Vivification in individuation, in essence, ouisa is vis Viva by accidental transubstantiation. Necessitarianism true, you metousiosis mutatis mutandis. Like being cut by Occam's razor, assume a conversation opened, yeah I’m opened. Object permanence doesn't happen in thought, can I move it? Nous too? Extend past changing it? True, true. Repeat past blaming it? Do you? Because I can't use pure reason If I'm winsome and loosened with a loose end to tie up– So Heidegger, or better yet Steigler, if we are me and you, and I am me, who are you? Grammatication falls to things in themselves, Duhem, I am being me, and I am me, who is you? Redundant, repetition. Medusa complex in deep introspection Jonah complex when I end a conversation With free association, with disassociation, in epoche terminat horadiem, terminat auctor opus. No terminus antequem under eliminative materialism. Yeah I'm I am I am Just me I am I am I am Just Me I am Just Me I think I am Just Me Goddamn Pussy I’m just the Primus inter pares and These are amenities, with amnesia, entities with enmity, ate panacea to contract akinesia Creases releases with steam they say Puissance preys on malaise, you pay Who's the pylon of the pantheon? Is it a bygone, is it foregone, a put-on... The pantheon is antiphon The pantheon in antiphon The pantheon is antiphon The pantheon in antiphon The pantheon is antiphon The pantheon in antiphon Screaming I am wise lost in an onomasticon Sophists lost us from phenomenon Further on is causeries with gaucheries mistaken for auguries of innocence, resonant of diffidence. Curtained the human congeries with saturnine straightened austerities from reticence, impetus of penitence. Thomist, Ascetist, Sophist, Vedas, Summa Theologica is nonsense no progress since.

But the value in ardor, been a thought since arbor day and now it's past February. Now March needs a eulogy. You said we were centenary—then lomentum. No plenum, no esprit de corp. A note on the door. Ask what for for what for. Ask what for for what for, I stayed stroppy. A drive home—Now…now…now, I am just me. I'm told I'm the mold of what I hold against those that all fold or that held me No control, all the gold sold as old I'm cajoled till it's toll takes heed it's the bold's heads that rolled cold in the wold hung on the thresholds of the wars of the lord it's the cords that are tied tight with a sword as the seed that frees my soul from the ward's sward that floored the shored quay of what I think Not rabbinical, I'm cynical, reticule on ridicule, Me with the parentheses, take no shit, diogenes. Why do I doubt my doubt when my doubt's my doubt? I am that I am. My will, will it will? we’ll see. There is no god but god...No, Close the doors, you uninitiated. Why do I doubt my doubt when my doubt's my doubt? De aenima, autem, quis sum ego. Gotta have something nominal, that's how you get value, ain't that right? Is god just an excuse to talk to myself, convince me that I have destiny? Can I have sex without watching myself cum in disgust, roll over and realize I was just talking to what was. Warm 38 in the dark 2 fluid ounces and forty perc 30's in my heart is this what life expected or did it even need to start is this joke or am I laughing to cover up my awkward pauses? Is this lead in my head or cobalt scraping my molars? is this bed what I said or did you halt because of the other body? How many people have I slept with if you consider what I have been forced through? I'll be forty, sorting myself out in the dark I made with my lies, projection my guise, to torture I go? I'll torture me now and you'll torture me Two. You'll torture me too and as for me, I'll kill myself if it means I won't end up hurting you. So why should I harbor the shit when I fathered it, what happened to value being inherent? Stochastic in a closed loop. ‘Ut ad loca heuristics you'll get rich too’, I want your art to mean something to me…But it's frivolous. I don't subscribe to revisionists. I've been arguing that aggregates cease to replicate when removed, not revised, reimagined. I am an idealist, and what suspends freedom of thought is not progress. Modes of thoughts written down is writings, not what thoughts possess. Alalia, What is construed is qualia, and some of those pictures we fasten with words don't represent the thought. Some people can layer them into a wonderful story to entertain others...but we all extrapolate from a problem. We have gone through history trying to identify archetypes from arche and not identifying the obvious dichotomies brought about from that...evil lets us take breaks, lets us understand the good of sloth. The good of wroth. The good of lying. The good of acedia. The good of evil. The good of hypnopedia. And understand that's not abiogenesis, and I don't mean that semantically or in jargon, duality is nonsense.... We are not subservient to soul, nor empiricists, or rationalists. A man lays in bed next to a woman at noon Her skin has slightly sagged around her eyes, a telltale sign she has been asleep for a few hours into the morning...Her lips downturned, her eyelids unwrinkled, her hands clenched and close to her cheeks. An eased moan escapes with an exhale from her mouth. Whether it is what it seems or not. The man unbolts the deadbolt, He throws the grey throw over the door, and closes the door to trap it in place, closing the light out. He walks back towards the bed, knowing that the mottled grey carpet is clear and he can kneel down to roll back under the covers. On the man's side of the bed is a spindly nightstand that has a thin bookshelf underneath the tabletop, on top is a salt lamp, snowglobe, and an assortment of cheap, old candles next to a pair of his broken glasses that have melted wax over the pieces of the frames. It got there from the first time it tipped over, He left the situation with a frustrated look on his face. He took the nightstand to his side of the bed afterwards. She didn't assume the worst, but the man was frustrated with his lack of sight at the time. This time was different. "What was that?" It was his fault. Blanket slips, He trips, he clips the bookshelf with his right elbow, he catches the table with his left hand as his body rotates. The man's eyes had not adjusted to darkness, he was so tired, his bad leg had failed once again, he wanted to be quiet so as not to wake her. "What was that?" The man wanted her to be able to rest. The first sound was candles thudding against the carpet. "What was that?" Next, A melamine plate sounding off from it's rotation hitting the floor at such a diagonal angle. "What was that?" The lamp, the salt lamp, the heavy, pink salt lamp, unlit—still plugged in—It hits the curtains hanging in front of the window, next to the stoop door, with the throw smashed in the top gap. "What was that?" The three layers of makeshift curtains, to keep the sun out. a blanket, a sheet, a tapestry. Held on to the windowsill, so no light shines through the gap, by a raw, unbroken obsidian rock. "What was that?" One point three six kilograms. It's three pounds. Three pounds of black. "What was that?" “Was that glass” Three pounds of black slides off the windowsill as a pink salt rock grabs the three layers of curtain out from that, and after hearing the three candles hit the mottled, grey carpet...a plate rotates, a snowglobe hits the ground, the obsidian smashes it to pieces. The water, the glitter. I did this to her. It's leaking onto the floor as the man's hand still steadies the rocking, spindly, nightstand in the daylight slumber. The man broke it. That wasn't what hurt her, that was when it started to leak out. She woke up crying then let out a bellowing murmur. "What was that?" "Was that glass?" When we observe this dichotomy of thought and understand our objective sense in the world...we can start about assigning individuation through the eternal souls stemming from that pre-branch and see that through knowledge of everything and funneling of energy to that one branch in information and idea...we assess and create progress… But here and now, We create what I say we create.

| Shale | | I lie | | A lake under my whole | | Lay awhile | | Tame | | I'm not on a soil anyway | | Weight on the world | | Wait | | Over or out you'll say either I die or…no, no, no, stay alone | | Loyal | | Lay awake | | I don't know no more | | No saying you're tired of her | | Hell– you'll lose her too | Yeah that's good. Okay, this one—um, let's see if we can do a certain b-side I want. No swing, No swing I want it all straight. (I wanna see what it feels like; do I want a boy on me? is she her girl? What is a god?) Pinocchio story the more I lie the more I go Playing pinochle on my nose, I deal with death I smell my out, fold my hand into my sleeve, wish that I could pull it out, just to see, to threaten me, what's a table but above my knees. Need to plan, what to do, what to say, how to plea. Want my seed or want a seed, need to be told what to do, how to act, who to be. Define me without a she. But who is he? What I see? Wander in from the dark, just like me, is this we? What is he? Just like me? He’s not like she, how can it be, that girl dragged my body through body then left with my soul. What is this, can he be, told. passing what can only be polarized, can you see? Okay, slow it down, slow it down, slow it down. Always want a boy on me But my girl's the government, Yeah. Look at that human, Yeah. Ooooooo, look at that human go past. The process, see. What do you see when you see you? Do you try to see you? Do you try to see what you want to? What you want you? Are you you, or just what you want to see? Am I me? Because I'm being me. If I'm being me am I always me? Where would we start— We, not just me, always me, always where do we start. Uh. Me, not just me judging them. Society, poor authority, I spit to two shins. Uh, Uh, Uh, Uh Hahaha. Yeah,Yeah,Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, the guns, the killings, the fun you had running drugs, running from a house, no spoken love, no hugs, just tugs at the strings, the things you once hung in front of you were just past feelings…Mmmh. Keep that up, keep that up. Yeah,Yeah…The process, see. What do you see when you see you? Do you try to see you? Do you try to see what you want to? What you want you? Are you you, or just what you want to see? Am I me? Because I'm being me. If I'm being me am I always me? Where do we start— we? not just me, not just you, not just them, society, authority, intstitut—ions, the guns, the killings, the fun you had running drugs, running from a house no spoken love, no hugs, just tugs at the strings, the things you once hung in front of you were just past feelings, a few memories to save you from a past self's accessory, no clemency. Can't fool me once in brevity, can't fool me twice if you can't get passed me. I surpass the past me...the past me I refer to you, I talk to you like I was you when you were there. We were two, just me and you...just me. (just me, yeah, yeah, Now slow it down, slow it down, slow it down, slow it down, slow it down) I wanna boy on me Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. My girl is the government My girl is the government Oh shit yeah My girl is government, Because, Oh… Look at that human yeah Yeah, Yeah, look at that human go past Look at that human go past me

Laundered solicited proverbs, robbed from loitering copper smoke mingled in my pot herbs. Clock sure, no, confidential is this stagnant browser… So time confidence, where's the starting blaster, I can make a pseudorapture, like Kang But I'm cooler than a cucumber, I lumber up and pick the carton out of his shirt pocket, I pop a cold glock under that warm roof and sploof the smoke out my mouth like a popped shoulder socket. Limp now, so stale and sauntering towards the end of the stage, the podium has collapsed on my broken toes but I’m jovial with laughter...Security, seems a sullen state, they watch the wounded rip his eyes from their origin as he gestates the waste that had built up inside the grey matter—it seems as if that very grey, like hollow apathy, is splattering out onto the crowd, and the crowd mingles with each other using only their frightened expressions, as each tooth he yanks from his palate invokes the very taste of...of an almost decrepit human nature. The crowd is as lock jawed as him, as the consolidated gaze locks onto me...Me, you can't stare at me, I am being more than being, and you are being you and less than you...So we can't dwell into this tragedy as the escapade of you or the result of me, but of the kindling that burnt this whole granite world—excuse me, asphalt, but what else beside me to state what I know is paradox, two pair of rocks, fast or slow, and you know as the queue to repress any non-conjunctive thoughts with an adversary that fights me in my sleep, that I obviously assign as a foreign collected unconscious that is formed, almost predilected to love and hold you until it jars you back into another layer of entropy’s waves…I can practically bite, feel those brittle, sun-cracked layers bend and ripple until they compound into the crevices of my molars, which I can imagine the tongue scrapings will only taste of corn starch and nosebleeds, that me, without you, will be free of the tunnels with wave shaped ulcers. No one will tell you the excitement of usurping my throne, for I am me, not one of you, but one of me, which is all of me, for I am one and all, so all not no one, but you are considered one while I’m the only one of me. I am the only all that exists, the only me...So sure, you should Stumble over the people in front of you just to tear a hole in my cheek, but you all are cowards, so I will force that task unto my teeth.

This is just cue Time will kill all Growth is just gall and if I don't know who I am to be time will not stop growth is just fop it will run through one or two—until infinity if you are just you and they all just flee I will split time So no one is God So no one is just…me What's a world if only me is me and me is everything, but I'm still searching for what makes me me without you, but why animosity is provoked when delineation is approached, perception is broached too basic to not evoke a sense of self, who's mine to tell, no time to tell. I announce nihilism is a cure for all woes, why I would say that, nobody knows. To rank all my doubts, see all my hate, coping with agony is winning the game. You can just question what Is the precession, but conversation of what proceeds leads to the state of retrogression Was it Self-fulfillment? No. Self-sufficience doesn't make a difference It's a tale of faux diligence Every step forward amendments Lend credence to ambivalence Memories detritus soul is too separate The abyss im entrenched in is living too literate Ticket to fate Cante I can't take Cantos can't ache Cryptolect can't court medicant Epitaph fake trick used to lick sycophants I'd rather piss blood than deal with this bitch shit Who's on the same thought process? carcasses lost in the crevices Screaming 'whose God is this?' Screaming who bout to die Screaming who's on the list Screaming who's gonna step up to christen this crucifix? He had made her cry too many times It's almost as if the Man had been enveloped by the darkness, in his faint sight, in his peak view of her, and he watched as if he did not care. He understood the pain she felt, he just had satiated the emotion so much he felt weak and tired of repeating the same reaction, as he’s so subtle now...as if he could react in some original way. He decides to sleep. Does it matter anyway if a dream elicits the same reaction as imagination, as projection, as retrospect, as real life? Is it dichotomy if splitting is not between two extremes—but of endless possibilities all dismally responded to? What was that? What I said It was