(no subject)
do you want to listen? just listen, listen to the teeth of the new moon biting into the night. forecast this evening, a low of 29 and dark. everything is dying, i said. click on the link. it takes you to a blood-red low hanging moon over baltimore. chance of rain in the city, 20% with possible snow flurries in the suburbs. everything is already dead, you replied. engine blocks humming in the pattern of palindromes. pistons pumping phrases flanging phases canceling credit cards. these devices our sensitive, the forecast sound. are we dying or are we already dead, i wondered?
this is economics. this is our destiny. to be good stewards of the collapse. to be faithful witnesses to the fall.
do you want to listen? click on the link. but nothing is connected, i thought. we are all dying. we are already dead. we are the answers to these questions. we are scattered. tangential and gentile. a cup of sweet wine. a blessing. christ was born today, ushered in by choirs of angels rolling off glitchy electronic arpeggios on basement casio keyboards. functional approximations of swells and decrescendos, compressed and thistled, snared in briars, hung up in pitchy three part harmony. there is no harmony. there is no new sentence. there is always new silence. there is always onotmatopoeiac resemblences and over-lapses.
i hope that you die. i hope that we both die. drowning in huge pools, unthinkably deep reservoirs of capital reserves, unprocessed trauma, and second guesses and addition by subtraction (or so we tell ourselves).
for instance: there is always new silence. there is always new. there is always. there is. there.
this is economics. this is our destiny. to be good stewards of the collapse. to be faithful witnesses to the fall.
do you want to listen? click on the link. but nothing is connected, i thought. we are all dying. we are already dead. we are the answers to these questions. we are scattered. tangential and gentile. a cup of sweet wine. a blessing. christ was born today, ushered in by choirs of angels rolling off glitchy electronic arpeggios on basement casio keyboards. functional approximations of swells and decrescendos, compressed and thistled, snared in briars, hung up in pitchy three part harmony. there is no harmony. there is no new sentence. there is always new silence. there is always onotmatopoeiac resemblences and over-lapses.
i hope that you die. i hope that we both die. drowning in huge pools, unthinkably deep reservoirs of capital reserves, unprocessed trauma, and second guesses and addition by subtraction (or so we tell ourselves).
for instance: there is always new silence. there is always new. there is always. there is. there.