A Collection of Spectacles


I did this thing where I described the sounds I’d heard in an hour. Completed a few days ago. Decided to post. Kinda has an incomplete feel but whatever.

It starts with the almost silent, inaudible, barely there sound of air filling my lungs, (or what’s left of them). I once heard that you do not burn holes in your lungs, they are filled with pockets of tar.

Followed by pulsating beats from angered music, which I quickly swap for a more calming tune.

All of this is accompanied by the whir of a fan.

Inside, there is an orchestral piece playing that differs from the noise that surrounds me. My thoughts are moving with rapidity falling without meaning swirling around among gelatinous nerves I am abandoning town soon swapping suburban nothingness the sound of crickets yelping at five in the morning for the ever present soundtrack of cars and planes trannies in heels marking the concrete never sleeping.

A woodpecker knocks on my roof.

A car rushes past. Then, another.

Life on a highway leads to this. Life on a highway leads to unpleasantries.

Since, there is not much audial stimulus, I’m finding, I’ll replay the sounds of yesterday.


Memory induced tinnitus: Metal grates against steel. Hot fenders collide. Everyone screams. Conceptual intercourse, or just another accident on the curb?

“I can’t believe you wrecked my car fuck you you fucking asshole fuck you fuck.”

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If I don’t know who to be with, and who I want I can’t be with, then maybe it’s best to be alone for a while

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There is no room for scathing remarks anymore, whereas I could once see myself expelling loaded words everywhere, then trying to backtrack and pick up the remains. But, being scatterbrained so frequently is the product of immaturity, and it is something that should be left behind. Back to the original point, back to mentioning my forwardness with men. Every so often, I am brought back to the same place I started, solitude, but each time I revisit having learned something new.

There is more than one way to love like adore care for a person.

One day, someone will appreciate my words. Someday, someone will appreciate my words.

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Quote: Imaginary Perversions. “Sexual perversions are morally neutral, cut off from any suggestion of psychopathology – in fact, most of the ones I’ve tried are out of date. We need to invent a series of imaginary sexual perversions just to keep our feelings alive…”


You know, if everything around you seems bleak and gray, you always have the option of turning on a light.

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I don’t know if I should write another wishful note, because by the time I find somewhere to attach it, some (unlucky?) address to send it to, I will not be “here” enough to make a difference. 

I’m lying in the bed that made me fall asleep to Faulkner. This time, I fell asleep to Ballard, and his vague writings about one man’s apocalypse. Drifting off, there were hats on my head that kept changing size and color…

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Very few go through life feeling, it seems. It’s as if I’m attached to Earth’s umbilical cord, emotion is stronger, things seem to upset me more. Joy is comparable to euphoria, its opposite is felt with the intensity of a bludgeoning.

I speak with her frequently and among the topics we discuss are how we think, how we conceptualize. We suffer from the same “analytical disease,” a rare illness in which the afflicted views the world with a magnifying glass, defects in human character are blown up to macrocosmic proportions. I have never been sick around her, however. The exhausting energy normally guided towards assessing others is used on trying not to fall into this disgusting rut. This is only because she is respected and I need to believe that there is at least one person whose faults aren’t adornments.

Enjoying life normally is not pleasurable when I have to live on the outskirts of misanthropic hell, and I need the same amount of energy (albeit, guided differently) to move out of limbo, if just for a bit.

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With men, I have no tongue, nothing which would facilitate articulation. Words flow from the mouth without hesitation, without a slight pause. Feeling freely is sometimes a burden, as it ends up looking as if I’ve spread myself too far, when really I’m indecisive and stubborn. With both hands clasped firmly around my beliefs, I refuse to change the way in which I conduct myself simply to make others more comfortable, leaving me content and severely unhappy at the same time. Either “the boys I mean are not refined,” or I mold monsters out of men. Sprawled out, as close to lifeless as possible, I will mouth something along the lines of, “It’s okay to like me but not want much to do with me,” to the next faceless hostage (though it’s never phrased well enough or uttered loud enough for anyone to hear). Maybe, one day the world will fit my curves with more grace.

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Written on an Airplane: 30,000 miles high, 500 mph. Houses, trees, and plots of land form intricate images and shapes. When designing such layouts, did landscapers and architects ever think that one day the full weight of their work would be viewed from aerial heights? Cars on highways look like ants trapped on mounds of dirt, or on a more abstract scale, like blood cells as they travel through the capillaries and veins of the body. Plowed fields, buildings, and backstreets sometimes twist and turn, resembling the compact coils of the intestine, creating mock images of the folded up tissue of the brain.

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