so it goes, morning discourse, unable to capture its rythm as soon I start to scribble, syntax seeps through linguistic motion, therefore once all is settled, and by this we mean geographical sphere, we need need to start dictating the verbatim recopying.

drugs drugs drugs these insomniac outbursts, body feeling like steel screaped against wood, infected, talkative, acrimonious, bitter, clearsighted. Lucidities glorious abound not in meanind but by the finality they procure to streams previously unlocked and dramatised. I will bespectacle myself with the mediocre shades when that door is crossed, onto the populace, chaos. Til now, ti;e indomitable and still lenient, slow, allowing aches in my brain to solidify, the blood on the mirror to dry.

Why the gun, a sensible question, to be expected when said rifle is put on display so articulately in your face, one can examine its detached coolness on a youthful body so evidently self obsessed.
But if you ask I will answer not with those artificial inanities, not with prepared ponderations... It is the I, the demons inside, that a person has, behind petrified eyes, poly;orphous and installed in this flesh, that is always present, they are, to destroy, to protect. It is the self that points calmly to the head, this spectacle of inner violence, theatrical, lyrical and grotesque, bathed in sin, lacerated by noise, every action is a kill, that is my vernacular, to kill signifies to act, it involves a movement, a choice and a death. Micro- organisms and feelings, tremors and heartbeats. This is a kill. My day that commences with military exercise, breaks the physical comatose, breaks into the day, this is a kill. Each instant and its small deaths, every gesture succeeding the last, to be partaken as a craft, as an occurence parenthetical and still subject to the chronology of the day, there is always a flow, everything so fucking continuous, not necessarily geometrical, just streaming through, waves on an electrocardiogram. And these spasms only can interrupt the continuum, for a while, the gasps of transient limbo, out of time and color, comprehended in motion, not language, be it visual, audible or otherwise. Metabolic interpretations, organic caesuras occuring in minuscule terrains where synapses cogitate the rest of the time. They help us sane, bring us closer to a peace unsoiled by the mundane, the behavioral artefacts cluttering this existence . I don't know if it is the