Before* I write, i have to ask myself if i want to remember or become [note (*): before indicates a continuality. Before exists, but only as a part of maybe middle and after and during et cetera. Just to be claro]. If I opt to remember, then I will write of things I believe myself to have been. Some still picture froze in my consciousness “n”. A static image, that while i believe it to be static, it too is in flux. What I am ceases to be as it becomes from omen to omen (m,t:m,).
Before* (remember?) I continue, I feel the need to dissipate the ‘I’. ‘I’ signifies the organic, at least to i. i also must dissipate. I must be expressed as some hybrid of ‘we’ and ‘I’. wIe perhaps. What was once I*  is now the organic (my flesh), the technological (my computer), and whatever else*, jabberingawaytogivedistancefor [note(*): whatever else might include the music i’m listening to, this beer, that candle (O fuck off, the representation is in your mind, dear friend), these feelings of doubt and inevitable progression, that is: Becoming.
And then I lean back into this modern couch. A real piece of americana, without nostalgia. it’s IKEA, and lovely. I’m plugged in completely. I even have my display inverted (negative) to compliment the dark. And this state. This space. Funny this space shit. And thank you for the word itself. Where would we be without shit. Especially bullshit, the greatest shit of all.
satie and the grey but brilliantly loving* tentacles of the dada spirit [note(*): loving can either mean whatever you, dear reader, want it to, or the spirit of playful chaos and De-structions, con lento].
what if we only looked at the blending of dabs the Impressionists made. Perhaps that is where our existence lies. This kite is becoming tired. The wind died. But we will keep this .
Green grass, a little dry, but alive. Leaves crunch and smell of earth. nothing sneaks.
It is lovely to be ignorant enough to mix what the experts swear cannot be mixed. If we refuse the discourse of impossibility, then we transcend. We can mix as we see fit. our assemblage is open <full stop>.
All that is studied melts into the air. Chronic becoming. While we here, academia is clever prison for would be radicals, resisters, revolutionaries.
Tired. But not to bed. To the television. To the plants. To the baking. To avoidance. To the villanelle.