Primordial: An Abstraction

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Do you ever get the feeling that your molecules are dirty? My molecules feel like Biblical whores.

Liebestod.

Hello! I exist.

Burn in hell.

I am not afraid of poi.

I invented plaster, however.

Reboot. Revert.

Hydrogen, helium, and a pinch of lithium.

Ich bin nicht ein glücklicher Mann.

I call to the long quasars in the rafters, in the hay.

I do not believe in superpowers. And yet I feel alive.

And when I forget to put on underwear, it feels gud.

Sadly, I am correct.

Datum.

The sum of human desire, consequence, suffering and madness can be attributed to two seminal factors: audacity and fear.

And now I will take a bath. In a tub.

There is no tub.

I am not the ghost of my former self.

I have never eaten a jelly donut. I never will.

Please check out my website. It’s full of porn and insight and darkness.

Everybody loves it.

I hate your guts.

How old am I?

I don’t want to die.

Maybe I’ll be the first one to live forever.

Shawty doesn’t even know how much I think about her.

Who doesn’t clean their garbage cans and their sponges and their broomheads on occasion?

Methods of Keeping Things Clean must be kept clean too. Otherwise: chaos.

Who is casting that shadow on her lunar anus?

Adjust the lighting please.

Everybody take a step back please.

Thank you.

My stepfather and my real father are as much the same person as they are themselves and entirely different entities.

There is no (step)father.

This is a good life.

I like reading about the moon.

Everything is black and white and nothing really happens and the landscape is just beautiful and I can jump, like, a hundred feet into the air.

I’m alone too.

I used to despise loneliness but I’ve become exceedingly addicted to it.

I think when you die you get to go to the moon.

Everybody gets to go to the moon.

Their own moon.

As I prepare to leap over a yawning impact crater, I lose my footing.

Discombobulation.

I crawl across the tundra until I hit a wall. Ragged solar winds peel the skin from my face.

I’m ok.

I consider the low albedo, the bi-hemispherical reflectance, the epoxies that combust on the stage of mourning.

I climb a ladder and jackknife off of the high-dive into the cool waters of the Void, producing tall eruptions of aftershock and dark matter and angel paste that burn holes in the ceiling of reality.

Soup. Surf. Eukaryote.

Monkey.

Shawty.

The sun swallows the sky.

The moon swallows the sun.

God swallows the moon.

The Universe looks awry.