I turn beautiful with beautiful things and despite themselves I get the same headache I do with what’s ugly. So the headache matters most, the intoxication from something so cruel. I’m not very cruel to things but I’m never serious either and there may be some cruelty to that, even if sincere. I’m very seriously sincere but I can’t always make it beautiful, I try not to make it anything at all. Things remain beautiful and I remain unserious about most things. This makes me happy. I can be sincerely happy. When nothing s stuck there s nothing to unstick and it’s a particular kind of pleasure to remove every piece of tack off a wall. I make a ball of tack and use it to grab at the small pieces that are left. This makes me tremendously happy in its stupidity. Please make of me something stupider and less volatile. I wish only to be made into an enormous ball of tack that you can play with. Let’s fuck around and make the whole world so unserious that it’s impossible to ignore how funny it really is. It’s disappointing to watch a bad comedian but it’s much worse to not get the jokes of a good one. I wanna laugh with the crowd and not because of it and it’s essential for me to suffer a little humiliation before I can. Strip me down to something horrible and make me feel disgusted with myself. It’s the only way. Then I can come back alive, out of silence, unstuck, honest and lost again.
There’s no reason to find yourself other than to be sure and to be sure is to be stuck. It’s all sticky except for what’s funny. You’ll end up shitting yourself and never laughing about it. Loving without ever saying it and flinging yourself about like there should be a point to be made. I’m not very sure, nothing at all. I want you to know that I’ve returned to myself something else, never better, always a little different, except for how I feel. I feel more of the same and it jolts through my body so intensely that I can only laugh. You make my bones crack and splinter as though they’ve never known any sharp edges. Time dilates and tics only when I’m gone. More of the same though more and more, my bones splinter and light up between the cracks for more of the same because they’ve never felt it. Each time anew, I’ve never been here before. And it’s nothing at all.
The evening was the smell of greasy Chinese food and spit.
August 25, 2026
est. reading time: 2 minutesThe evening was the smell of greasy Chinese food and spit. A series of continuous beeps kept us alert during the intervals.We tried to get
