it's 11:53 am, on June 03, 2020 - a goldfish doesn't know it's surrounded by water.

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feeling like one does not want to exist is a familiar state; like water is a liquid. doing it amongst other water droplets, many of whom are expressing their own states of wanting to not exist -- perhaps of wanting to break those covalent bonds and drift apart into something more ephemeral, perhaps gaseous -- that feels new.

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three and a half years ago (december twenty something two thousand and sixteen, to be exact) and in response to images from Aleppo, I wrote:

this isn't sorrow, america, it's shame, and sometimes I think you should be forced to eat it.

I feel deep shame for this sentence, now: all of america doesn't deserve to have its self shoved down its throat. rich white americans do. I take it back, I'm sorry. I was wrong. I am nothing. no more liquid, right? dear bobby burgess: when you were in seattle, trying not to die from seeing the goldfish bowl in the brand new booming tech industry, how did you survive? ...did you survive? did someone else preach the church of suicide? it was so long ago, I can't even remember if that was you, or some other desperate tech boom employee screaming into the void "guess what, it's too late" like a prophet, like a hipster cassandra.

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la plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. defeatest.

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- - December 15, 2021
bruise - December 13, 2021
bruise - October 13, 2021
- - December 01, 2020
bruise, forever and ever and ever - November 19, 2020

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