4:20 on a Friday Afternoon

When I think about the future I want to throw-up. A beutiful image isn’t it? Projectile vomit. Clammy hands. Glassy eyes. Shaky knees. It’s not something I like to dwell on. The vomit that is. The future induces nauseau. People who are self-assured are liars. If someone knows what they want or how to get it…they’re sociopaths. Don’t trust people with a vision. They leave no prisoners. They’ll rip you. They’ll screw you. They’ll tear you apart piece by piece … extracting what they need in order to maintain their trajectory of upward mobility.

Oh but the future … that black hole, that void … that welcomes me with open arms. Why can’t we stop the clock? Why can’t I sit and spin my wheels? Reveling in my shallow, derivative, confessional artistic expression, as opposed to being at the mercy the inevitabile maturation, dissipation…evolution.

I paint a grim picture. I’m sorry.


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