maudlin

it is time to begin, i guess; to rotate ,like, like a burning sphere in reverse chronological order remembering the time that we have lost with references to the things that have past, never know in the second person, with our idols by our sides, forgetting and taking from taken from  ourselves by the train that never stops, an agglomeration of webbed allusions, forever tangling with each other at once loving and rejecting all that they have know but cannot stop from creating cliche.

we will never know taste, but we shall know style; we shall refute never with the music out parents rebelled to, never knowing our refutation, hoping to take with in us the oppositions of others, seeking desperately to be that which we have been made to desire, by that which we hope to desire in an unending and un-begging torrent of re-aggregated things we hope never to imbue. we cannot love; we cannot be; culturally stunted by singularity of the tech industry, which we know intimately through years of ambient study. and this is taxing me: never drink alone and rant about the regurgitated regurgitation of the regurgitators. live only to that which you will never know and refute the ablutions of pertinent commentators; to be ignorant is bliss: bliss taken from a naivety which breaks all four walls asking you to be at once in a position to assimilate the data which it offers in pragmatic TAKE TJIS |HATERZ.

thank you. thank you for all the things that you have taught me: i did not wish to know. 4 now i know the all things that i had never hoped to, and in my self aware pragmatism, i view these things only as a means to the which you have forced upon; the false and overtly pretentious, stylised writing, the hope that i will never have to do the work that you have done to teach me these things; that i might lie back and recline in the cesspool of ur false knowledge the things proffered to the intoxicated children with the nonsense ,and fantasy fandom’s all being into one gay orgy of stupid bullshit, which not one person has ever desired to read; its glory stunted in all places, except the minds of its creator. for we are one now, one in our bullshit and rhetoric, alone together at last, the last being the only and also the first out time and place, and fuck deluze, run on sentences run forever with out children who penned them, guaranteed the eternal life promised by our over references to item with more status. once a sufficient level of complexity is achieved we assume the appearance of the means we discarded with our references, seeking not to make sense but to be connected to all which are connected.

and what of things? we have some many of them now. incorporeal and ephemeral like the high school verbiage we spew, from our blog holes.

this post is worth 15 billion.

update

nothing

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orthoepy is hard to pronounce