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Meh. Just gotta write 250 words then type the shit, take a picture, & try to get it up in time for people to see it. And here’s the secret: (this is late). I try my hardest but everything goes to quickly sometimes. Will it always be like this, or has it always been like this and only now do I realize it? Maybe I don’t care.

There’s something about asking a question without needing an answer. In some senses no answer is an answer. Or not. Who cares. Maybe I won’t even write 250 words this time. It seems routine, & then I ask myself why I care and there’s a pressing liberation when you realize that apathy is no more sweeter, and you don’t even have anything to show for it.

Lately my throat has felt, like, open & booming but I don’t feel like making sound. I want to listen, or I want to isolate. So it seems like I don’t really want to present, or be present. Something about leaving my own invisible trail of bread crumbs.

Stale bread. Use it to make French toast. Eat. Lose the metaphor. Evolve beyond the metaphor. Consume the metaphor for sustenance. Hibernate. Nightmares of concrete absolutes. Wake up. Realize you have become the metaphor. Remember you have never read Kafka. Hungry metaphorical stomach. Make French toast. Eat.

Hm… To the odd buttons



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