17:44:22 UTC

Something the fags try to drop on us. I see a little in the foyer before us. I know that God is with us. His will abounds our shoulders. We live among clouds furious. Wide sinful regret. I don't see much more around, except our fateful end, an expansion of force from our oakened patriarch. Adjust. Make yourself something 

The readiness feeling. The wonderful all-sensoriness. A new person. Their hair, their chest, its colors. I see them all in basis, their bright waistfuls. Nothing held back, all the forbidden material unfurled. Escape options exhausted, consummation in the chamber of the banished gods; feel life's new rhythm 

The great big wide horizon, unbroken. Our friends nearby. I know as well as they we're not around anymore. A strong man to make a final push. Heads upward waiting for offerings. That new path upon His shoulders. Can it all turn back, we look ashore, a heavy wave just past, big blue lurking and leaning

August

All laying about--still with no thing to say. One more fix pushed to the line. What is this place, anyway--just a few clicks? There is a referential map, but when is the burden passed on? When is the subject relinquished?

What remains even? Finebaum pressure builds. /lit/ has faded. The Packers are back. Nothing more about that. I just want this all back the way it was before. I want the music again. I want animus of exploration. And to never tire so. Pack up, a trip to the factory. A season reaching new and perfect twilight--the imagined form bounce-broadening into the widest verse; sight shifted maximum to the back end.

Stay just a little longer. It's the underground now--a single fairway, one swing. The dominant style cruises to a new peak. A stiff angle across shaded bright wood. Unleash the beginners. The sight is there now. They stand faced away in The One's Great Design. The poet host of material lurches to a last gasp, where we cast down our schoolbooks one last time.

Why'd we have them anyway? Our dreams, at caffeine maximum, spout the stylings against the real.  I know these things, certified reference points in our greed--summer meadows.

What do I lean into? One stable substance to pour onto... How to use but not optimize?

Madame Web

I think I first saw the trailer in a movie theater. It was a throwback to earlier movies. The ones I loved as a child. America returns to receive Raimi Spider-man. No more do we cast aside a set of reels into irony litter-traps. It's only a story of a paramedic. The reception is an entirety of condescension. So the fog is heavy until we wander in. 

Our modern tragedy has ended. Dakota Johnson, finally offered a beacon--ordinary-citizen. Was there ever another? What happens? The line-reads from Johnson stride right through. It is a total zoomer autistic strike zone. 

Where do we go from here? The sequel the movie teases? But the box-office was dreadful... So back we go to Johnson trash-can roles. 

The Rotten Tomatoes looks solid actually. But I stopped looking at that years ago. So I don't know what that means. I guess audience score is still pure? 

There is a demon lurking behind the walls. We see him occasionally. He usually glances away, anti-contact. Some of our friends, who've long been with us, know the way of these things. It's been over. They've been dead. But still it goes on. A demon whispers back. We, too, know the way of things. Only faggots breathe now. They all know the life and the breath--the essence of living. Our death comes broad. But we see none of our meaning. So we continue. Like an evening dance with a lover. A stunned resilience.