Good Artists Exist In What They Make,

When I'm Doing Work Online Or On The Computer, It's One Thing. When I Want To Read, I Want To Go Elsewhere, And I Want To Be Away From The Screen.

No One’s Forcing You To Do This. You Willingly Tie Yourself To These Leashes. And You Willingly Become Utterly Socially Autistic. You No Longer Pick Up On Basic Human Communication Clues. You’re At A Table With Three Humans, All Of Whom Are Looking At You And Trying To Talk To You, And You’re Staring At A Screen, Searching For Strangers In Dubai.

So I Should Be Aware Of The Dangers Of Self-consciousness, But At The Same Time, I’ll Be Plowing Through The Fog Of All These Echoes, Plowing Through Mixed Metaphors, Noise, And Will Try To Show The Core, Which Is Still There, As A Core, And Is Valid, Despite The Fog. The Core Is The Core Is The Core. There Is Always The Core, That Can’t Be Articulated. Only Caricatured.

Morning Comes Like A Scream Through A Pinhole.

I See Colors Like You Hear Jet Planes.