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.
Mostly I brush life off my shoulder when it falls gently from a tree, or when it grows from my shirt like lint. Mostly i sigh it away like a laugh from an unfounded joke or a waft of extra air in speech. Except sometimes.