What would my artworks all be about, if my complete series are but a sham of dread and noise in the form of disappearing dreams? And what would their faces sing about, if their signs suggest discredit and menacing discretion? I call the conspiracy out with cosplay and bad practice —oh should I say lack of practice, only way up to catharsis—, for days now honey. And it may be true that repetition won’t guide my anything to the surface. Let this expose my subterranean workings, then; full of sick and enmeshed with rage now more defective than effective, less clean than before. A bizarre blur of onomatopoeias.
For what decrees are worth, I’d suggest continuous schizo zoom-ins. Not that I know of other hobbies.
I ask in plain sight, which is against me: is it space or is it time? Graphs tend to slow down, today. Hands held, we predict and experience our predictions real-time. I ask over tarmac: science of great numbers and codexes, did you extend my lifespan, or did you slow down my victories?
