finding it difficult to remember a stranger summer. then again, I thought the very same the year before. and the year before that; I seem to grasp a pattern forming. though, the grasp is slippery, like my bruised fat fingers were covered in oil. and that’s what drains my drive, the grasping of it all. and it’s my fault that everything appears as this spiraling vortex to nowhere.
apparently.
neck up I’m dangerously unknown and singularly cavernous, yet everything below is in the shape of a million jokes. too many mouths for the telling, never enough minds for the grasping.
see what I fucking did there?
come at me from a certain direction, if you want a certain telling of the fucking story. that’s my version of motherfucking string theory.
come at me from the void, and you will find a smirk written in languages I will invent for every way to say, “NON IUBES!”
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