Sometimes serious

I come pre-hurt pre-horrified, pre-saddened I am safe that way all the ways to cope I have already operationalized What you think, is preempted I am safe to love. Pre-tested pre-terrified. Quality controlled. I come pre-disgusted antagonized already no shock, no surprise can i suddenly find. I come pre-dead. There is nothing here to look at.  This is how it shall be I come pre-stunted.

i do not want to listen to tiny soundscapes tickling my cochlea to the unexpected as if to suggest as if to suggest, literally anything imploring me to listen dumb brushstrokes and blocks of colors figurines and silhouettes evocative of evocation a feeling of some times or place or both a voice, a thing that sounds like language trying to place me in the mysterious words to describe the shitpudding of today a reinvention of an artist and their voice a recapitulation of names namespaces a melody you can barely remember an emotional stamp buried in the heap of emotional stamps of the oppressive nature of today. in fact i don't even want this thing im writing right now just to be left alone a naked mind under a bare tree being nothing, but not Pessoa's stone, not Ginsberg's emptiness, just one that is not referential PLEASE i beg of you.

“ this is the age of rampant computing and of quantitative mania and of  search algorithms running on GPUs looking for a person shaped piece missing dead perhaps? but with a digital trace. leave it to the hypertext of imagination ”