nihilim

. get your groceries, we are going down the street. do not make eye contact, keep your arms inside. you will not be hurt. if their skin is so dark it is because it is dirty. \'what is dirty\' because they are so dirty their skin is so dark. do not make eye contact. do not be afraid. they\'re just as scared as you are. they are just as scared as you are. now get back inside. now put them inside. do not let them dirty. .

. i don my fisherman's ring and cast my self out to sea. among the fish i shepherd with a net and oil. i bait them in my faith and hope they don't see the light. .

. She sees herself in glass, painted on a silver canvas. She sees herself as nothing— sees herself in something that her eyes pass through. Makes changes. .

. pyramids roll across lined paper, streaking tar like cigarette burns, leaving marks that seem to say 'hate me' .

. lavender smiles with fraudulent teeth tossing with fickle fingers pixelized gravity in fibonacci deaths .

. intravenous satire in broken-english wounds caress with red-pen-razors rhetorical police-tape gauze. .

. spitting out a kind of light backwardly reflecting off the monotone brow of a broken review mirror, checking behind for some sort of oh-my-god-it's— i'm coming [revelation], looking for a sign of light; confusing sensory input. headlights shining nearer asking for names, identity, 'what were you doing on the night of' questions. 'i don't have any answers, i don't understand your questions.' GETOUTOFTHEWAY,PPUTYOURHANDSONYOURHEAD.[sic] 'i don't understand.' 'ignorance is not an excuse.' thpttng owt lite, [i'm choking on the rest,] i'm looking for answers reflecting in pale flat faces. .

Skipping silently a- long lips of film, (water's never far beneath,) the obsidian-rock-tear tears through the air, denying echo cushion of sound vibrate. Dissipating significance of audit sensory auditory neurons, neutralizing digital self-explanation, conclusion: irrelativity. Time slows to a flash of not-so-aerodynamic time, sewing knots in reason that's never far behind. Splash.

. I am the king of bag-eye-blues — my queen long divorced the vessels Christianed on dark-paned-glass and stigmatic holes in walls of the conscious- ness undertaking simplification of mind- distorting meanings of laws created for the sake of bending the rules. Magnum Cartesian roulette spin-cycles washed-out brains on purple-pink ties stained with spaghetti-strung thoughts, wrapped in pitchfork pitch. Black stabs of shining points point sparks into light, shafting three-joint fingers conjoined into white imitations of a black-barreled gun into my back, where time and space are cerebellar traits of warped minds warping tho

(automatic writing, that is, transmitted to me from above.) .... ........... ..., . ........., ....... .... ..... ...... ..... xtxt > #HVuu]v]v]v].  ddd (https://www.deviantart.com/ddd)�Û�?  o��c?  f xtxt > —dyÛÛÒUdUÛUz8N9N9O?    oÌ ˝ncÒ > ?  —yg—oÁÁÒÒÒ?  ?  -y +lÁÁÒoiw4s + pwpwpw8; oyoyoyoyÌq6z|:  (k, j, TySS9) .\'. ........, ....\'. .... ... ....... .... ...... .......... .... .... ..... ktLo—Û—ÛoÛ�Û[sOMÈDzMwDy/ Jou�? = ?= ?= ?= m—u; Û = w > Á > ?  7; ?�Ò; �?s \"H\"H\"H:                  I I\"H zw zwjjjjjjjjj   663;;Ò˙Û˙Û�Ow  ]wppAptk SH mu jjjj:  6qwwwswwo3:  Á] ]%%Û ]wU

101412PARALLAX per aspera, ad astra. to the angel of the halls of time:          in the space of those untold-thousand terminal          heartbeats silent; the treetop sunbeams gliding          some forest thaw in spring where he was static          bled like ruin and heather in the cloudshperes          she danced not far, and whether or not she felt          the dynamic of weathered-storm skyshallow, yet          untired he moved to make not a sound and thus          was fashioned the beginning of an end          sometime in the past, wherewith all things were          one, it seemed like it would only be forever from

Her hair was a charlatan dedication plucked from the springs of a car seat and her eyes were dog-eared pages of French novels and her blink was a beatnik handkerchief and her teeth were the pawns of an iconoclast’s chess set and her bite was the tail end of a well-filmed soap opera. Her nostrils were electrical outlets, occupied. And her mouth was the quickest route to a man’s shortcomings and her smile was a ramshackle version of the Sistine Chapel and her tongue was a Moroccan banker and her whistle was an epiphanic version of Holst’s “Venus” and her laugh was a zigzagging line of cocaine. She coughed