y

The first blog post I ever made here had this song.

And I can’t escape it. It’s almost like some sort of hex or magic. Painted the very road every iteration walks on, in uncomfortable madness and delusion. Every single word and nuance is captured in this song, and I don’t even listen to it that much.

But beyond this manic need to put something out from the void in an attempt to break the mental bars (rather cowardly, at best) there is one more thing I must say: I am here to sell you something.

There is a sale in everything I write. To radiate the very embodiment of each product I will make. All as mere advert. Though a chance to move stones around this world, some Heisenberg principle validation, it’s also a way to gather devil’s moss.

People want “authenticity” but what they really want is a better mask. I am here to show that mask. I am perfecting that mask. I already am that mask; it’s impossible to be friends with a mask, but I can sell the idea of a friend. This is my perpetual advertisement.

I can sell the idea of a furrow-brow’d soul, and the idea of how “there must be something more” or “there must be something out there” or “surely someone just GETS it” but it’s all a sale, just more complicated, a little more meta. Bleeding the lines between authentics and sales gimmicks the same as the prescient punk scene capture, skateboarders. We’re in the fallout. Mix in some epistemics beneath the tagline and I’ll convulse arms upward, WILL INTO BEING these beloved ideals, despite all deceptions. Patched over the nothing inside.

This is my advertising place, nothing more. If it comes with a storyline, it’s only a more complicated sales pipeline. And if it seems like a cult, well, the merch flows easy then.

Born to be a souleater money machine.

There is no other reason why.