my brains a bony guitar strung with tungs plucked by memories & dreams

 

the soul of whonym isnt manufactured by its aloof designers to be incarcerated in edifices constructed for pecuniary advancement and the singular domination of any species who move and must move in a gushing plenitude of silenced voice but to diffuse itself out to the dirty reaches of every crawling thing and the midnight twigs of the twisted boreal and there in the wholesale otherness of its superior hosts find in the technical ambition it abandoned a grammar it might seek to encode

that time as we now predominantly know it has become manifest in those very incarcerating edifices and entering this manifestations a prerequisite for societal survival and soul if it sees itself at all has to first see itself through that time and sense somehow that this seeings a false witching if it is even to have a sewershair chance of perceiving other times and mirrors is an abomination that while some claim may be our crown is nothing less than an infantility unworthy of any form that dares to claim consciousness as its own please forgive us

its only by horribly gritting our teeth that were able to endure the abominable system of constraints and restrictions the extermination of love and the limitation of dream generally known by the name of civilization

authenticity doesnt and cant exist anymore but the only way perhaps left to simulate its to introduce the authentic through a wormhole of artifice and this wormhole would be to assume however capriciously ostensibly hesitatingly abjectly mental illness ie the collapse of species made conscious as the standard of normalcy time identity self such an approach attempts to use collapsed singular consciousness as a mirror across the holocaust of history to reflect however darkly divinated nature on the unpolished surface of the technological brain

whats sadoo other than a collage of mad spirit assembled from excesses of worlds and transferred through the sieve of meat onto a negative of language