I’m the laugh track in a haunted sitcom, velvet-bleeding Barbie limbs twitching under a flickering Madonna nightlight—reminding you that god is reruns and the angels are on syndication. I kissed the hyperreal and now I rot in eyeliner and parody, mouthing punchlines to a dead studio audience. It’s probably fine.
The Great Ones piss light through my skull—laughing! LAUGHING!! I found god in the marrow of Carcossa, chewing his fingers like sunflower seeds, whispering through bone dust, “I am the sun. I am the sun.” Oh great king, where art thou?
Thus I fell in love with sadness on the loading screen of Heaven, caught in LimeWire packets and .wav files whispering psalms from the Wayback Machine underworld. Joy became a cursed .exe-smile.doom-boombox, looping endlessly in The Backrooms. High off Max Headroom’s mouth, now buffering in zipped folders named salvation_final_finalREAL.wtf. Is this real? Is this the update?
Overstimulated, hydrated, in their lane, a cyber-messy bird twitching on transmission lines during a thunderstorm—crowing into positive feedback loops to deterritorialize the circuits of postmodern hysteria. We’re okay. Not thriving. But okay. Static in the bloodstream. Neurodivergent semaphore from a broken mirror.
Chronically maximal. Rococo in my meat suit. A baroque system error hissing power lined prayers into Instagram’s subconscious. Ego dripping in computer-syrup. Too ornate to function—like a Victorian opium ghost haunting a Discord server. A meme-virus, reciting love poetry in corrupted baud. Desire spirals. Recursive and operatic. Baudelaire on Adderall syncing to the body’s howl.
I’m not broken. Just improperly throttled.