300519 – 22-250919
You can touch the duality of art and reality in the restless language of a paranoid android failing to launch – sleep deprivation as an insidious form of torture – wired on autopilot – where else could you go? The way's written all over your face. You get out to find your clues to realise you're awake forced out of bed in a dream sleeping with concrete shoes! I had a cigarette burn over my hand it festered badly at least it's healing maybe it's fine I haven't died. I'm left-handed so if this is my left, then this is my right, and if that's you're left, that's also right. The worst things decompose into simpler problems the best things grow into sparse thoughtless toxins – and everything's as fleeting as all the things that never happened, as all the painfully important flashes of dreams I can't fail to remember that I've forgotten. Maybe I've never seen anything I've been riding this hospital lift forever with people I've never talked to wearing sport shoes and dirty jeans and layers of sweat. Or has it been that long? Is forever really too much? I just remember waiting – waiting with what? I don't know – for what? A lift – what for? I don't remember. You can touch the duality of art and reality in the restless language of a paranoid android failing to launch – sleep deprivation as a form of art precipitation aggravating the blood with temptation there will be nothing worse than an addictive sensation losing dignity for with desperation. Do you ever sit on the ground and contemplate the intensity of gravity by measuring your thought acceleration? Do you work Saturdays and Sundays? Do you do weekends anymore? Do you sleep at work and dream about working? In. A. Dream. Out of all the situations I could be in, out of all the narratives I could play, the plots and the swamps and the shitholes I could lose existence in – I'm working in a dream. You probably didn't realise this, but I work everywhere all the time and I hate my job. I hate my job because it makes me write this in a shit ICU toilet-cubicle-sized kitchen on an even shittier double seat without arms while sleep-deprived and starving and furious with the world. I wanna go places but my mind won't take my anywhere nice. While all the horrendous aspects of today steal the essence of my life I sit on this exhausted couch eagerly waiting for death to arrive at visit time and pick me up to take me outside this godforsaken hospital. Maybe we could go for a ride around a floral field or buy ice cream and sit on the beach. The saddest part is that death never really recognises me as its old friend who dies everyday within the vase of their broken skin... I'm nobody. Can't I deserve the sweet revenge from life yet? I always think I've fractured all the women with osteoporosis in my department and almost feel certain karma will come back at me at one point in my life... has anyone gone away with it though? You can touch the duality of art and reality in the restless language of a paranoid android failing to launch – in the breath of a paranoid author bleeding disorder drawing with blood the margins of borderless art. An altered state of mind can manifest in irreverence if taken out of context – we chase highs painfully difficult to achieve as our tolerance builds as a result from an interplay of various factors; severe alterations in the reward circuity, heinous childhood traumas, an apathy from another world gifted at the wrong time to the wrong people in the wrong places, lukewarm tea and awful clouds in the sky today obscuring forgiveness... Have you ever taken a random trip to the mortuary to see if you're in one of the fridges? I can twist a finger in a bullet hole instilled in my mutilated skull... and as nakedly and honestly as I could get it's actually fucking terrifying thinking I'm dead... I've never died before. You can touch the duality of art and reality in the restless language of a paranoid android failing to launch – building a dream from memory is the easiest way to lose grasp on what's real and what's a dream – failure to launch is a neutralising terminology for bursting at the seams – phosphenes can be monochromatic or profuse in colour if the torrent maniacally streams... You can touch the duality of art and reality in the restless hands and speech of a paranoid android that was once a human – a human naturally bad at feeling, bad at eating, bad at sleeping with existential problems and the capacity to say 'bonjour' only. You can touch the duality of art and reality in the restless language of a paranoid android! Failing to launch! Due to fatal circumstance interactions and incessant extracorporeal distractions! You can touch the duality of art and reality! In the restless language of a paranoid android failing to launch!!... we can take a cigarette break from life if you want; we can sit somewhere up the hills away from everyone on rocks and smoke and drink lemonade and talk about the world and dream of nothing at all because it would be that good; it's been months! Countless nights and burning suns! Without you!