There's so many things that we can't guess
Sitting on the fence of living, glimpses of a captive breeding of sorts.
SORTE in my head pounding at the doors of equations conceived to resolve a possibility.
It is not that with which I’m concerned; it is that with which I’m deficient towards achieving.
The relevance of breathing a certain kind of air, the irrelevancy of being forced to work on machines of burning.
The eyes that look at me are slightly off-putting, projecting me in a paranoia tale of violence and oppression. You are what you do and what “I” do is nothing short of nothing.
Cats sleep all they in their castrated existence, never really occurred to me that it might even be good for humanity to abort the tension towards the preservation of the past.
Museums in tandem with plastic backstages in relation to petroleum smells. I never had that feeling of freedom of burning animals under my arse to direct a spaceship towards an achievement.
Put your achievements in line and undo the grand scheme of things to redo them to your favor. I spent so much time dissolving my brain in peaks of sensations that now all I’m left with is my own inability to enjoy the ones I can because of the impossibility to access the ones I ought to.
What I ought to do is simple, and yet the simplicity of it just beacons universality in a way that individual genius would be trampled, stuck in tenses of despair, I never thought that understanding so much of how things get constructed would paradoxically reinforce the ineptitude towards generation.
If you reduce everything to its potential, you’re left with a feeling of fossilizing happiness underneath a heap of miscellaneous histories.
The genius is out of the bottle, it left all the wishes, are gone, and they never realized, experimental collaboration shows an escape. The genius, my biggest feared object of society’s reference.
Does escaping ever stumble upon itself? The idea of escape, enjoyment… couldn’t come from them if they mean an end without means.