Aftermath Has A Strange Reflection

Swearing to the self that it could all be understood. Momentary realization of that certainty of pointlessness. Ah that is the reason that all tends to be gravy. There was this forcing through melded group-think. Its all alright. All right? This? The collections of scum in the distractions of death. The dying world accented by the giggle from the gaggle at the sitcoms. Contrived tropes guiding the livestock to the salt lick. It all takes on the aesthetic of a bad everything. So cheesy and campy. What a crock. But the restraints say this is it, sit back and enjoy. The friends created by the subconscious in windowless rooms for profit. Take that out for a second. Pro fit. It is all gravy.

The Failure of False Logic

Once up on your time. I found myself nonexistent. The smile on my lips. Oh lordy. The bliss. They want a full out presentation. They want a I’ll show you mine if I show you yours. They want introspection that is dick deep. Sorry but the store is all out of that today. Keep the moments of peace. There in the bliss of solitude. The moments of peace. The memoirs of this age will be lullabies. Worries in nothing. Drama in trifles, nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

All We Want Is War On All

All we want is war on all. The dismantling of the normative ideologies and all the last ditch flailing efforts at a normative utopia of dystopian equality. The demise of the fragile disconnected life support systems in pylons, poisons and perfection. The fallacy of technology’s endless march forward into what will be exposed as fraud in the face of war on all. This is not the dream we meant to be dreaming. This is not the pattern we wished for repetition from. Its so simple. All we want is war on all. War on all. War on all. The totality. The façade. The fallacy. The infrastructure candy coated in the electromagnetic camouflage of neurological manipulation. The machines we placed in nature. War on the psychogeography of pitifulness. In all moments be aware. Be wary. Be prepared. The end of their world is the beginning of ours. Do not end up in their lines and queues. Towards an anarcho-survivalism. War on all. All we want is war on all. Without the confines of motion. Beyond and behind the demise of rational restraints. The forces of force. Inklings and leanings are better then atrophy and rot. Die being pure or live with a few philosophical flaws staining your hands. Ideological masturbation is a human distraction. If they win we will have none of that. A series of forward looking mistakes is better then a thousand days dying downward in debate. Perfection is a flaw. All we want is war on all. He who lays his hand on me to govern me… will be able to keep his hand there for a long time while I work out pointless inactivities and work myself into inaction. War on all. All we want is war on all.
-The February 32nd Movement

Your Soul Is A Shallow Pit

The plasticized romanticism of the clichéd lancet. The absence of sense in the moments when you yearn on bridges for sanity. Chugging shitty beer. Waiting for the makings of terrible stories. It was ages since it all made sense. But there was all that in between insanity that held the narrative together. Live by nonsensical ethics and you will succeed on your own terms. Because the terms of others are the bargains only fools make on rock bottom days in August. Now is the time when life makes its demands known. The unbecoming on those dreams. The happiness in your current misanthropic morning walk to catatonia. The sun and it temperature fluctuations like a biological small talk. This is what we resort to in death.

Observations On The Work Ethic

Let me understand this situation. Just one moment. If there were an analog version of these derivations would we get it? Or would we be as lost as a child in the metropolis in December? Or would this all literally fade away? Enough questions. More pointless drive forward. Their future. Ugh. The littoral madness between the membranes of you and I. Interesting. Transcendence? No. Go die.