What was it, again? The Golden Damned, Three. Rotund artillery fresh out the nowhere from what civil unrest of the soul. Your made-on scry wank was the shapeshifting agent for the whole per diem, apparently. Ghosts infiltrating the lungs of regular smokers through their cigarette, vape bars, juicy aganognoid estuaries, severing ties with the physical realm for them well in advance. I even line the truth with a vein of falsity, here. I do not pretend any of this makes sense, but—much in the way we see faces in the woodgrain surfaces of tables, or find a bunny rabbit made of clouds for a moment before it transmogrifies, the human mind makes its own stories out of chaotic stimuli all the time, it seems. I could be wrong, though. You are not expecting me to be lucid, maybe. You do not know, maybe. I am merely freewriting as a means of psychoanalyzing myself, and that is really just about all there is to it. Saying the first thing that comes to mind, then the next thing, then the next thing, because there is only so much time we’re blessed with here, before we’re gone for more or less ever—too little time to spend worrying about what to write. To say your truth exactly as it occurs before it is altogether too late. Something like that. But then, who knows. It may be the case that reality has become too real I don’t know. So that when I for whose sake the dragon flies south and reflexes its tail against the curve of the earth so as to cup it like a nesting stone or a gift-wrapped present to God, who can say that I am not the little one-eyed slush pile getting run over by the bohemian bicyclist with a guitar case slung over his back? Zoom-zoom-zooming through, you know? And it is here we begin to take the pill to understand. Hard or easy to swallow, either way. To float forth into the seam list. Where ducts of spiritual phantasms reek of too much wine and the thoughts of aethers long disproven last in the eyelids of the dissolved third eyes. Where Iv and Tulah are the same character hardly if ever having been described. No one is able to tell. Then what does the next page portend, when it is all the thing that is all dissolved in. Because I am the man at the laptop the macbook air from 2017 blessed with a subscription to Microsoft Word and hands to typewith and a lap to set things on. Typing this, now. Watching my own hands peripherally as the screen fills with little text nodules and the symbols form. By some strange twist of peculiar events somewhow seeming at least a little to enter a sort of a miniature trance. Not knowing. Though when it goes, the story is lost because too much has been described. Not enough has been said on the thing itself the object is supposed to be of attention or what have you. There is just text and ableton chaos reforming into meaning again. Not at all the same as prior so then let’s get back to it: to the pill: the one you were meant to swallow: to understand: what is at stake: the heart: the heart of the heart of grinding endless mechanicus of life. What a higher power is: the fabric of reality, or simpler, Truth. Iv grinding away at his workstone in the field of blue grass, trying to piece together why the food he’s hunted is frozen in a block of ice, now. Tulah whoever that is suspended above him, in the air, watching being the reader’s eyes. How to pretend all is right when very little can be made sense. There are times and times and times for things, I know. The dragon cups the earth with its tail. Imaginary persons happen to exist. Deal. It’s not any sort of a thing I’d wish for you, but is The Truth. In some very essential way. It is. Solemn overbitten reef spoon dug up the exuviae of the Titanic where eelworms are hollowing out a vintage tea set. Left field is open where no ball is thrown. How does one pretend nothing is seen? Are there not paranoias you have to do away with at some point? Tell the terrible tale, will you? The one you tell yourself every day. It is time for sleep. Get some rest. For me. For me. Please. It is time.