My subconscious unravels itself when this equation seems falsified to reiterate old wisdom and renew the taste of fresh conscious air. I must dig, I must hide, I must destroy, I must reconfigure data fucking storage, but I DO NOT forget … This is all so inexplicably necessary. It is beyond explanation, only poets could hope to give a road, weather-beaten, overgrown, and grass forked at best. This is all nature to me, human and earth. And when this catalyst touches my forehead, when brain becomes a fluttering eye, when I bathe here to wash the bloody crust away, I know it is only temporary and hesitant and fleeting. I write to remember “it” I realize. To understand the point of origin and continue. Many things are becoming clear and dear to me now. This glass is being wiped clean and pieced slowly back together in patterns my scarred hands can only just do. I know this path is killing me, but what most do not see or understand are the cycles I am intricately tied to forever. I must be a solid and solitary moon or planet or star. I must be alone in this sky and searching, meant to be watched, painted, reminisced, and pointed at from afar. This is who I am.

A psychic hermaphrodite, penetrating the world as it penetrates me …

I had the urge yesterday to run out in front of a busy street and stand in the middle to let death and life play with my hair and flirt with my intentions … this is not suicide, it is testing how far i will go, and i assure whoever has the redundant inaccuracy to doubt me as much as i doubt myself, i am fucking going all the way …