Randomly I’ve urges to delete everything (again and again).
Maybe it’s an acknowledgement of futility. There’s not necessarily anything to extend towards.
As much as this was meant to extend it’s more like a retraction.
Receding deeper and deeper into a meal for one and a two-chair table fashioned as a footstool corner.
But I’ll dance in the reverie a bit longer, let the amnesia drive me more until away eventually.
I guess the only thing left to say is that I’m making this site for myself. No more worshipping serendipity.
It’s just, if I can no longer care, wouldn’t it be easier to just not write anything?
Some would retort that it would be easier to just not exist.
I don’t know. The essence of risk is a worthy profit.
What does one profit by massaging and licking oneself of random thoughts, prostrating before the unfiltered masses?
It’s not a picture of humility. It’s of pity.
What does one PROFIT by making this? Something to do? Could that something be done on one’s own?
Ah, I found it.
This is my respite. The only place where I may write unfiltered, no matter how much that may bite me later (but it won’t).
So I’ll write.