Inside The Shell Of Every Young Person Is An Older Person Wondering When Will It Be My Time?

So this is what it tumults to, I am alive, I am 25, or 24, or 23, or 27. — Not dead yet, but sparkless — when you’re dying you don’t want to die; you scream a scream of a million screams for help, and here I am today ///

a victim of Instagram, of a human ego with skull and brain but no substance. Image with no corresponding reality, a chasing blur

of nada surf and everything and everyone:

A soulless engine under a winter sky that wraps itself in black by 5pm; I love the darkness: Absolute darkness is the dream. The profound black of nothing is a massage to the mind’s eye, a zen state of void where I can fall off into

the ether. net cable.

 

 

But even there the thoughts are hard to control, the calm darkness erodes with warm and bright thoughts. I want to watch this, I want to buy this, I want to get high, I want to masturbate, I want food, I want a fire, I miss him, an aesthetic scene of what the New Year should be.

SHOULD SHOULD SHOULD SHOULD

The mind drills and drills and drills — pillaging thought after thought after thought after desire after desire desire desire desire.

Inside the shell of every young person is a older person wondering when will it be my time?

Inside the shell of every older person is a younger person wondering what the hell happened?

The sea has a lot of trash in it.

We want a revolution — a moment of victory, but it it evades like meaning evades.

We want every person to be as big as Tokyo or New York City

it never comes

We’re ghettoes of fat, chemicals, and pixels

—

— Causes as real as ghosts in movies.