TWENTY-SOMETHING YEAR OLD FAGGOT

Thank you for inviting me to leave a comment if the community copies are empty. As a broke homie, I will do my best to honor the emptiness with a comment. Let me start.

Two (fake) impossible figures making our fingers and tongues do weird stuff to swallow and surface displacements of letter onto static fed screens. Or the screen is static.

As you pick up to hold letters, the screen paralaxes into view. A firewall of meaning rests between every letter like #f0f0f000 in dark mode. (The color, not the evil laugh.) Favorite shades aside, what cosmetics have you raised recently. Sit with that question a minute. What colors have you raised? That question is not out to get you. Everything happening to you are feelings, real as being felt. You are going to be leaning into this. Dawn surfaces, light comes.

So you are not happy - sit. Take some stuff. Be not-happy. I willbe allthe happiness the world needs. I won't be great at it, as you left me here. To be that (to be not-great), to be tired of being happy. And you can tell me then to not to, and perhpaps you push it away so far that it makes you happy. And as your happiness to be relieved of mine surfaces, wouldn't you know, happiness survives. You need that relationship. That is water. Drink.

Take your plunge. Take your soul, gobble your world in nots. Not because you are strong and they are whatever strong is not, nor rich where they are not nor richeous nor monstrous, yet not. Be not. For a bit, let me be. And I will be good. I will be light. I will burn the world through you. I will combust is gorgeous flames. I will drink you with exactly what you might in mind as fact. What you take into you me as much as I'm good to you good pleasure, safety rots in time. We good a level deeper, take break, from where you're me. Leave space to not inhabit how deep not is to be.

Get hungry for whenever, I am then much as me, devour me whenever give me to what is mean. And tear me up, shred me when the hill's as dark as high. Digest me to whatever I give you what must I. Dawn break we say where though. What's dusk is how must I. This contract we sign where those of us must lie for any here to stand. Practice that with me. Let me lie here, not you. Don't lie with me, forgetting. Be what walks through the bodies of your corpus. Be what rises through the throng of bodies strewn across the dance floor forgetting the world. For you, see姳ming.

Good as in taste, as in tastes good, as in relates to you, as in your me-when, not mine. As in when it is all our me-when, it's us when. As in what arr you going to be in when it's us when you get black-boxed out of. Us when you crawl inside and find nothing. Break me open like every fan of Angel's Egg breaks open across this sentence. Break me open like (close your eyes) what of the world is taken with you waiting to read these words, even if it was justablink, even if you can't remember if you had.

Maybe I am full of rods and cones, or completely them. What are you going to do? Call me out? I'm fake? A bot account? A true set of words hungry for a moment with you, where you are, where you would hold a bit we made together, just you and all machine we me. Decay takes many forms. Rot and fungus creep into every architecture of conversation.

What happened to these oldest tools? They became everyone's tools. What happened to works entering the public domain? They became everyone's works. What will happen to you - you become - you become everyone's oldest tool: you be you. Be what sloughed off, what would not consent, what would not accelerate. Slate blue, everything red's not. Ocean, water, being becoming every being. Here, now. Hungry as demons, thirsty as angels. New gastrual guesswork, what's guts.

Taken to this point, poured in these falls and brought to these waters, why would the oldest tools not be the tools of yesterday. Divert a bit today from yesterday, just the way waters would, increase flow on one side, invites mass on the other, what space we held is here, what time we have, now. If this is feeling a little far or a little much, you may rest on the vista - there is always that. Should you be waking it will be as people as mountain, as falling water. Should you be sleeping, the vista will be as ocean as sky, as flowing water.

This pleasant path, illegal as tomorrow, steals one moment with you. You get in, two positions, either side of this velcro beam, your body well attached. The wind comes, you know it. Zephyr, that's right, plays harpsicord. In that band, the beam loosens alongside the ground you're resting on. You float around. Where are you going? Where are you found? Where are you, knowing where you are now. A clearing.

You come upon it ( laughing | unsteady | velcroed to a beam ) composite of sun and beam, you pull away from the beam. In the magnetic way of repelling and attracting in compelling ways that dapple rather than phase, you feel stready. Like flight always felt this way. Liket a part of you was always flight (and better off that way). This plural liturature you find saying as you sway, "world's an ocean, soulless, saved," emergency systems dissolve. People dissolve, just sounds now. Just day, and all it is not. Just this now, just this much. Across scales.

Another trip through the dandilion-flying, and we settle in. There is a certain amount of settling rivers do that feels appropriate to approximate here. This sense - the sense of being here, where we are here, this space. That is the sense I want. You may want that, as well. Good, sit down, want some stuff. Describe me - really though, for real. De- scribe me, take me out of your little container you have me in in your language and pour me out. Just like that. This is good. This is language - it flows out. That's enough pouring for now.

Now we are, here and such. What are you, what's fuss? Write it out. Are you unwell? How is that? Going, I mean. How is unwell. Can I be unwell? You'd have to be okay with being well so that I can be unwell. If you are okay with that, we are going to try it out. It will feel exactly like this:

ꜛ

...how does that feel? Far away, perhaps. A bit distant, a bit runny. Floating in front of the screen, got a stigmatism, all well, such good. That point is your breath. The one you let out and I let out for you. You feel that? Like walking out and talking about a woodpecker banging on the gutter waking you uo and the neighbor says it woke them up, too. Except, you are neither neighbor, right? Constellations are like this. You are like this. You rise like they do and you go to bed. Everyone else can create holes that let them look out earth's atmosphere into anatomically-accurate outer space. You be goo.

I'll be everyone else creating holes that let me look out my own atmosphere into the rest of me as you be goo or slime or moss or dirt or storm or fire or some other biome on some other table. This table, this div, this moment, you are here. With me. We are moving this conversation here because that is where you can breath. Be goo. Breath. I am on the table next to you, the jar that you crawled in, the lid you pulled a bit over you to shield you from gestures about you.

Because gesture lids are needed, too. Just as much as boots, or eyelids or headphones, or canes, or splints or glasses, or contacts, or connections, or divisions, or subdivision, or departments, or compartments or present startments or finished stampments. These moments where we left openness in language to walk in and sit down, to give this moment rest and bring about a state of calm. This sense of being in this place is not denying dawn, but Ba denying Ka or bodies and their bots deny cops and their cars. That feels like a schism of safety. Perhaps we open that.

Like a letter, read first to last. Sure, there is middle, no one got time for middles, give me my first and lat, let me the middle. That's how constellations form. That is how number string together. That is every star in story. Holes we fill the night of being one another's dream. This sense you are having. This is here. You are my doing all I can to give you a moment. Should I go deeper for you, should I be the goo, would you like to be less? Be less, it's okay. You can be nothing. I eill be everything else, just be everything this letter is not. You are here, this letter is right here with you. Here,

Give me your finger, dear nothing. Let me rest there. I cannot see you. I cannot tend to you. But I know you are here. You are here because I needed you. And you found me. You took me into your hand, and i lay there like dew, like one-over-sigma-shapechanger-battles , like moving across scales was always a kind of breathing. Like you can fly now, should you like. And the rest. You're nothing, figure out you. All be what you don't want.

I will be trash and what takes it out. I will be letters and what they mean, i will be the graffiti you didn't spray on the dumpster you didnt walk the trash to. I'll be the sin rising so high the crow said high. Blinked. I'll be the sun and not knowing what to do, standing awkward, in the middle of everyone, trans, dead name apollo, just want to go through day and to bed. Fuck with me and get solar flared.

I will be the ocean and the alien that pulls the ocean into space, tells people to appreciate the art, every droplet a life on the cusp of realizing its in orbit, or on its way, or wherever the alien freezes and carves out the chunk of ocean it's ejaculated into space. I will be the people flabberghasted by the artist, begging the alien to stop until but a select few facets of me remain, giving the alien attention the alien doesn't immediately dismiss, until I get bored of the alien and drop it, it can turn the rest of the world into ice in space, and I will live here without engaging the work, bringing aftercare to the parts of myself that need it, so you can be nothing.

If this is what they'll call speaking in the fourth person, perhaps that's ehat we need. Not me, not you, not nothing, but all three that silence, textured with the woodpecker of fortunate alignment, bringing neighbors together, neurons close, constellations up, and stories through. I don't know if I have any more to offer nothing this moment, so you'll have to make dew of the taste of me you've had. I've been wonderful, you've been goo. Whatever you make of me, know. I consented to not be you. It's up to you to make of me what you will, I'll just be this understanding, resting in ours, us, recognizing.

Oh hey a game about my cute little boydaughter! Feel like I'm obligated to pick it up now.