i don’t make art anymore. I just come here to be sad.
a selfish liar without the confidence to stand up for herself….what a waste.
someone said that to me when i was doing the dishes not to their liking. i didn’t believe him then. i do now
an altar to the little bits of biology that were once a human—stones, gold, bottles, and books.
dead eyes and scraped skin because lies are easier. that is the truth.
air hands- square palms, long fingers once held divine wisdom and played a string from the heavens
until bits of bone buried in carbon began to separate and fall away. spinal dislocation. torn tendons. limp ligaments. worm food.
the end of physical body- reduced, reused, and recycled.
now we can begin again.
it is a myth for some, yet our species, and the sand we stand in, is withering away. adding another to the list. this place is only a place of fucking and drinking, the highs and luxuries of humanity. for most, this is all that matters. forget everything you thought you knew about the world, and realize it will all be gone in 50 years, fuck your car, your house, your keys, the bowl you put your keys in, your favorite coffee mug. forget your wife, the dog, future grandchildren. that book you’ve been wanting to read, that weight you’ve been trying to loose. fuck your pride and your fucking self esteem,
because it will all melt away.
the most majestic and fascinating places are the loneliest. complex in the way they fit into the scheme, they only have themselves.
the heart’s desires, siphoned from the harp, send vibrations through the bones of all the father’s you’ve ever known. they are free because something has told them to move their arms- to make sound- to be a part of the universe.