Glass touch finger tapped one oblong grope greasy buttons clear case gone yellow more familiar than dick veins finger prints relative to phone weight grin ripped sticker moist chipped bits edge curved gunk filled volume heavy to head cleaned in one breath four corner prism print scanned electric text searching for network cracked height cold to touch little tv bent mind’s eye privy to all depravity violent silence frightned pulsing spychotorture abbreviated stationary as the unreal. Sticky monitor flat to sky block functionng wilderness surfed edge need in drag mining a thousand yard stare for thirdparty eyes inoperable without a contactless hover in a second by second waking moment. Dead to rights inferno stream in silent mode woke up blue screened I have too much on my mind lets call for the quietscroll.
Press and hold: swipe up.
One finger single-tap <like> two finger pan right <love> rotate left <share> pan left drop
two finger swipe down pan left <repost> scroll to left edge decrement <sad> two finger rotate clockwise two finger pan down <wow> two finger double-tap <haha> scroll right two finger swipe up <care> two finger swipe right <angry> scroll left two finger swipe up <help> tap and hold <vote> scroll to right edge <insightful> one finger double-tap <share> swipe right <expand> two finger swipe right <open> decrement <comments> by <zero> zoom in <image> hover.
for you.
One finger single-tap: as flows jarred surging possession, that creation of production. as collision. as the squeak of smack. as the grip song on thigh. as vitriol licked in the manic lips of a triumphant monologist at the tip of his vehement position. as the terms of the artist salt in expression the warm skin of desire. as the digital (The term "digital" takes its significance from the English word ''digit'', which refers to a finger, thumb, or toe) terrorist roams over your screen. as “i am that i am” thrusted with a vague exhale. “as i am so i act” the dark-eyed glance of withdrawal. as artificial intellect can write in one second, all i can do is write what i see lying right there next to you.
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what’s happening where live audio conversations happen? crying wojak composite material barking at other ideologies, impulses threaten in shape form. tap to join, everyone can reply. you don’t see me but content rescues us in the illumination of class positioning, the words of my screen. tell others about yourself, premium individual. switch your camera on, verified user. report these featured people. the reader is invested with the power to estabish textual supremacy over the narrative discourse. text uploaded by everyone, even “bottom text” is socially ubiquitous, and take this further: the digital native has the fastest thought-to-post-ratio, just watch me type. there’s an echo to composition. synthesisers stole the scratch of boring paper and pitched them up into electric clicks, bleeping spasms. search for a space made for us. view older posts looking for unclosed caches. there is no need to distinguish here between producing and its product. the mind becomes finger. vatic apotropaic, tap to like. overcoming impersonality demands replication of process detailed to be familiar. this is what we do. this is my (your) feed. you are me.
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personal details boost user feedback. in the days before the screen there was nothing of me. the surface of writing is no longer dead white but fires fields of blue. toggle confidential mode. few dance in the weightlessness, even death has lost his crown. i see three warcrimes fourth is paywalled. from nothing, a black brightness feuds my finger prints. update canvas and refresh feed. 9 by 4 of a million imaged frames contending for 7 sucking seconds of dead thought. the people are rabid, the keys are hot. there is an untapped primary source of human emotion to pithc up and distort. lick spasms till they scream. image as text takes no thought: equation adventitous. but you know all this! it’s right there next you pick it up see the language for yourself. snatched, screenshotted, reposted. i’m triple overtaking you highflying down the infinite scroll.
for the non-believers, the form is character.
empty your mind of all content.
review last message.
desire as the force of art.
desire for more.
Set obsession.
Is this poetry? How the fuck would you know. this is the way, step inside
your apps and media. misanthrope pan up <item name> prestidigitation at least you know it to be true, be ok. enable blachant in a streaming world that prioritises ephemeral dopamine hits and algorithm-piercing smashes, conceptual heft can feel quaint. all thought no dialogue, all image no teeth. the great reformation has made a machine out of me. eat fresh. feel good. order now. vaguent seep your audio, a judge and a drip: dramaturgical reels zoom out <number> errancy merge swipe left timer “new project” desiring one’s own annihilation or desiring the power to annihilate? there is higher philosophy in a reel than a treatise. snapped. can you remember a conversation unreferenced? seek and destroy all language. uxorious agitprop pages zoom in <item name> image image image. we can hardly see without shapes of comment sections slicing all content, phantoms of imagined vitriol. writing is not about something, it is that something itself (Flaubert). Ithyphallic: Joyce’s radio plays on screen. i have water in my eyes pan right transumptive pan left <number> ping flash of blonde. we ask these images to account for experience, but their poverty prevents us from really understanding what we have lived through.
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two finger swipe down online now: maggie, ashley, grace, olivaia, amelia, luna, emma, anna, mia. zoom out <now streaming>pan right you are well placed to ascertain that the death of the book form does not signify its brutal disappearance form social circulation, but on the contrary its absolute proliferation. pan down <item name> free the nipple. the girl with the body of the antichrist, an offence to god. swipe left more like this. this video may contain graphic or violent content. see why. see reel. one finger single-tap allow explicit content. rotate left it would take a special type of idiot to pick through literary ruins without bearing the arms of image. content warning (vocabulary): the language may be offensive to the reader. satiety. more like this. if a historically great novel emerges today it will similarly position itself against other popular art/media forms and catalyse a passionate, semi-unified community of readers that feel like they’re participating in an alternative discourse pan up ?number> coeval more like this. this text is not a pipe, this text is not symbolic, these people are not magic. we have no skill in that. we have a memory of a time, we can’t thread it. we can’t lose ourselves like the dead artists to ribaldry and story, that chronological science of words. my alienation is not outside me, we are alienation. you we us. Is will be was. we can’t conjure character but demonstrate function. No mask just nothing.
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two finger double-tap adjust the sensitive content control. more like this. two finger swipe down content & privacy restrictions. more like this. three finger swipe right we don''t suppress content to encourage people to buy producsts. see ads. two finger swipe right audience retention warning: contains graphic imagery which may be offensive to some people. two finger pan left blur explicit images. sensitive content control. more like this. not safe for work. see image. one finger single tap see image see image see image. ridiculous it’s the work of an obsequious bimbo, forty years too late to his great downfall. it’s unacceptable, cringe, dangerous and incorrect. it''ll take a long time to wring the blood from my mind. we-narrative soothe this sliced desire two finger pan up <item name> “select location” mocks, even, no care. captious dismiss penumbra insightful ugh, the obscene! Diffuse brackish pretentious (Woolfe) perspicuity. And with microplastics in our bloodstreams genonmes in flux and cynicims dividng labour into streamining thoughts of black tears you ask me to ponder pontificate over syntax like a junkie asked to explain his dance to the police drone. single tap gap copy appearance one finger triple-tap identification: this is what’s happening and it’s freaking you out !
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My apologies for that rather regrettable sequence of events, I shall write normally now.
In the calm of midnight, my phone and I like to play, rather badly, with words. We take long, long serious daydreams across apps — gratuitous laughs, gratuitous cries — kicking up stories and languid tales over how we’d spend our literary fame. I scroll my phone for new ebooks and high journalism because I know within that device, a calm sweep of words brings me so much joy—it makes me feel seen when I look in the mirror (and see me!).
Sometimes I wonder in my evening sojourns, about those that do not know the truth of literature. What do they think and what do they feel? Do they know that literature is most of all, reflection (and if I were to be so bold, that it is also trauma)? Do these lost souls know a bookworm such as I closely protects this secret? For do they know concepts like verisimilitude — I have it written on a post it note on the side of my computer — are a gentle leap in to the observation of human life?
But as I clasp my red wine, I exhale and smile in the comfort that we noble writers—the great perceivers— are cozy counsel to the nastiness of life. We watch and wonder, while we are forgotten. A girlfriend of mine Caroline, whose work you can find linked below, once told me over a latte that “we are the writers of our favourite writers’ fantasy”. I positively live for this credo.
No, there must be a special sect of introverts to record our world. We must see this not as a burden but as a gift to be shared in expressions of love. And these expressions—for what is art but genuine personal expression?—are mild doses of happiness for deserving eyes. We take only memories, and leave only the kindest of footprints. We keep the baddies honest if I say so myself! We wrangle wit, and channel joy. We are the great communicators and now it’s time to leave those newsfeeds of rage, and spread some well-earnt human calm. Because, most certainly, my good friends, my dear learned reader; deep within writing institutions with a cup of coffee and pair of ugboots, sit we keen-eyed notators of intimacy reading the newest news. And while the kids are spreading hate and lies, we write on; calm and considered.
And hence, in these troubling times of ours, I turn to Rupi Kaur who warms my heart like a hot watter bottle on a cool winter’s night. I especially enjoy reading her with a jasmine tea, and my cat Muffin by me on the sofa.
“Oh my gosh!”, I exclaim to Muffin, when my poem about my nature hike lamenting urbanisation receives 5 likes. (“And in the sway of the tree, I felt free”, was often praised as a particularly powerful line). My readers; I appreciate the positivity this slice of perception afforded you all. All I merely ask, is to please consider an online review. It will help out more than you know.
I want to end on my favourite quote by Martin Luther King Jr it is the poeple the poeple the oeple yadad yada yada get absolutely fucked drop this jiggerypokery and talk straight turkey meat to mate !
swipe left cum-shot. This is not an infographic ridden eunuch prancing across a gallery pointing to dates and titles. This is your wiki synposis and your nosewipe and your screenshot all in one. This is the Bacchanalian doxxer of modern pretence peeling your eyes from the screen to sell you a contact lens. TThis is the addict waking the dealer. This a shocl doctrine with sounds and haptics. this is Ahab full tilt spitting malware at your meagre skiff. This is nude twister on the qr code. This is the sloppy seconds at the bottom of the cum bucket. This is an escooter to your naked ankle. This is a deadeyed smile undressing you. This is a verdict a minute. This is a cultural revoltuion in a an opus. This is the manifesto of the anti-fascist way of liffe. This is the ballad of a thin man. This is the long-form instant flicking through your cleared caches. This is hostpital’s IT system killswitching a few life supports. This is spat laughter that shine on death’s crown. This is the opera of the onanist played for two girls and one cup. This is the gay scinece creating something more beautiful than itself. This is a A Phone of the Artist as a Young Man: This shit will make your eyelashes comb your eyebrows.
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If writing is so secure, why all the lanuage models? If art is so dead, why all the screenshots? If I can steal 7 secs from you, then I have carved David: Instant classic. Reader keep stripping off your frames of reference, pick your oblvion up off the floor and abandon your post ! It’s not the communcaiton but the prompt to communciate, not the post but the impulse to post, the broedom to scroll. two finger long press
four finger double-tap gay pose swipe right watersports two finger pan down: revolt.
Nerve stimulus, and nerve stimulus only is split into sound and colour, at the same speed that they are swiped into our brain, and with the luxury and curse of total blank slate literary configuration, even faster. Faster than story, faster than grammar, faster than attetnion. Hurtling to still image. Four finger single-tap Communities Scroll to Bottom Desktop Wallpaper Two finger swipe down Swinging One finger quadruple-tap Artistic or Borderline Porn Zoom out Bondage Overtly the language appears contra reason but this is the method of the noble lie. All Awarenesss of media insciption or lteraray analysis must end up at flesh. our new bits and gigabtis of natualr language processing, make those sily signs smybols and signifiers fresh bankrupt. the lingua franca of the only serious joycean response: binary code is where the ink must be split. move to previous different item redhead move to bottom of document upper body move to previous image abuse move to previous visited link labia scroll left skinny/thin For the brick throers among us our reponse to the repsonse starts with our natural born commondity for which this text is devoted: skin.
The writer’s finger is only the text made mobile, made manic. it dodesn’t matter when it began, I’ve lived it my whole life. I see whole skins of this new medium, no i will not paint I wil deface where power screams. It’s just like Sister Ray said: One touch is never enough. I’ll jailbreak lines of idiocy, what you once called geist. I’m driving intensities so disorientating that your own personalised antichrist arises in the little death of my cyber coucherie. My agony’s priceless. This absurdity is abrasion. One touch is never enough.
two finger rotate clockwise types two finger swipe up <item name> scroll right bbw move to previous visible app It’s me or the milennials or the lanugage models. You don’t really gave much of a choice. two finger pan left <religious> pornstar lookalike one finger single-tap female dating strategy there is no need to fear or hope, but only to lok for new weapons. I have ten fully licensed keyboards at the ready.
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Oh the old carrot eyed early voters we call authroities who designate what’s good, well I would shoot them all if I could. These dust cummers, these barely conscious liver skinned cataracts, sit fat and comfortable on the last of the writing institions passing judgemnt on literature. They actually take pride in defeatist tropes of boring trite apolitical fucking groans of a read. They’ve earned entire careers from ripping off Janet Frame and looking for similes in trees. If I knew they would still be calling quality, bestowing critical accliam even now post-pandemic, I wouldve gone around spitting at them in fruit section instead of wearing my mask ! Smug farcical parasites listing in cognitive decline.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
But where the oldies corrode into their pisss soaked chairs scared of te reo Māori words and loud sounds on the TV news: You young poets, what misery have you got for us now? Such proud posters of “It becomes easy to forget that real humans exist behind the screen” and “everythig sucks” and “please why can’t we all just get long?” A plague on you nihilists. There’s a poet in dunedin who read too much stpehen king and thinks he’s Homer with child verbs and his parents’ disappointment. There’s a writer in wellington who sprays his pained reader with Aquinas and makes up conversations with his legs crossed intellectual misery. There’s apoet in the new yorker who weeps of identiidty wow no one has seen that ebfore.
Chatter small talk curiosity equivocatio heasary, etc.You write limp-writsted laments and status quo advertisements. You bloggers retreat so far behind identidity saying “it was difficult being different” repeat repeat reat (but this time in italics). Pussywhipped to the adverb, you throw in a few elipsis mix in a few anti depressant medication names and masturbate to the sounds of two words you stole from an inforgrpahic to repurpose as “my poem about depression”. your writing is indistinguisbale from corporate job descriptions. you scrunch your bulls ring and paint your black nails, and then bloat yourselves heaby on poassive cliches of “sort of reverence” or you oanic and say “unheard voices” or “I ahvea phd” to justify aimless puritan chunks of mental degradation called “literary fiction”.
No one ever told you to shut the fuck up so I will: Say what you see cowards ! You all wander the newsroom’s reading room preaching prefaces to the gold cards yelling “I’m misunderstood”. you with your chinos and your bangs and your notes app and your “another word for…” recent google searches. You with your creative writng degree writing dead fiction. You the institute of modern letters in blob form, have you ever used the word anarchy for anything other than a few objects disrganised? You piss about writing coferences with pristine prose pleading with three readers two of whom post the cover on their story and then regift it the next week. You even count your “best sentences” pathetic with a grin to no one. Yyou cower behind irony in all enegaegemnt with art. You are so poisoned from suggested content that you cannot hinestly rpresent your life as anything outside of the community guidelines.You fuck yourselves senselss on the sensation of impressions from thinkpieces and cultural commnetaries. Your lnaguge is made to please, with that stunted quality where you make whole mental illnesses quickly cited authorites. You grind poems out of your supermarket panic attacks. You pour your heart into your thearapist’s offhand comment while she laughs at your mummy-didn’t-love-me moans in her pillowtalk. Your minds are still in that office. Your minds are always in that office. You live your whole llife in that office, and your friends fucking hate you for it. You there struggling for a whole 2 hours to come up with “sometimes I imgaine I’m a bird”, have you ever tried even just once, to write what you see? You are blind bled wailers growing tides of ennui captive to second hand image. You’d rather tweet about sidney sweeney than fuck her. It only seems new to YOU!
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“The book is dead” you all cry, well it’s too lucky that I am a necrophiliac. Watch me wank on the ruins. VISUALISE VOMIT VENT. Writing is carving copyright into your own skin. For us the moko qualifies for the man booker. this is dynamic development not of linear plot progression but clawing towards teh manufacture of the art product. Art is only desire made anyway. two finger rotate anticlockwise rotate right penis specific actor/actress volume up nature two finger long press
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scroll up videos three finger swipe up Aythtentically amke visible the tools of composition. Plot, scene, set aetting settings. the currency oft he world is speed. It is pituresque vibrant dirty hot, these wires are sparkly with sweat !
“But Mr Warhol, there is no death through disruption.” Correctomundo fascist (fiscally conservative socially progressive) ! but eeryone is locked up in his cage, everyone is at his widnow nsweringt o his name and showing hismelf when asked: this quite simpy is the great review of the lving and dead ! petite scroll to top oral increment <nerd> by
Touch prompts my action, groping the vibrant. What, you don’t rub one out to the porography of late captialis? I do every time I trasnfer funds. Livign currency flows thorugh my digital skin. move to previous item with underlined text rimming two finger pan left bras long press <ethnicity> pan down <dresses> previous paragraph specific personality zoom in <cum play> move to next link shirts/tops move to previous same block quote for women There is no beyond, what a joke of a word! but armed with a paroxysmal exultations I’m trasnforming it all. Maximial speed is the longest way around to the shortest way down under.two finger double-tap gender crticial sroll up asian two finger swipe up <clothed/naked pair> For the nooologists this is pure form arche-state nibbling a minarchy move to next item with italic text rotate left <watch people die and gore> You lined the cocnrete to my jaw you sent the sychphants striaght to my money you turned my house into an air bnb I have no choice but to write like this. but you know all this! it’s right there next you pick it up see the language for yourself.
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Show us the arrogance of one who spoils the plot, reveals the tricks, steals the joke: this is the prohet who makes you laugh ! In such an illiterate giggeist, we libidinal economists scoop ether and pinch tints from the waking eye of the executives toating to bull’s balls and speculatiive buy lows. Who gives a fuck what it reads we wnat to know how it feels. Cause we feel absolutely nothing. We never have. Best we can do is a nasal exhale. long press <reported> long press <new post> one finger single-tap mobile view. one finger single-tap create filter: We dip one finger in your glass and ask for your aerospace and defence portfolio. We leer at fly stains and social benefits and augmented tits of the straight and narrow. We intensify stimuli and cut your wrists with comical lines of bait. We play chicken with oblivion. We puncutre bubbles at Waihopai. We, the illeterate literati, draft consitutions ontop of jiggly titties with a furrowed brow and our tongue inside you and many mmods skimming from left to right. Ww are Deleuze and Guattari death grips and a data groper. For us, one touch is never enough when poewr scrams.
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We made God up then srolled right past him. Fake shit. Beauty is constrcuted, morphed, in need of the depraved. set up an alternative appearance increase motion vibration dim flashing lights more i like this two finger single-tap reduce transparency one finger swipe right. two finger single-tap silent mode. vibration on. swipe down <increase contrast > swipe down <item name>.Passing for women, third sex artificiality normalized and abandoned. Freedom to free the nipple. Freedom to ask for help. These are actions that still remain confined to permitted networks. Telegram may harbour the insurrectionists but the spread of messages still remain tied to the limits of the very same platforms. “Yeah, I feel great!” Bombarded with the hidden lean of the new abnormal a screen degrading women, undergoing audiological affirmation: help. Help. Help. more like this. increment <item name> zoom out <number> two finger swipe left show All movements are flattened by capital with the permitted squished into solidarity and a hastag played out in the theatre of the powerful (conceit). Me too I agree ! Verbatim quote from Monsieur Petit Wayne, “Suck a nigga dick for an iphone 6” The social relations of the phone have not yet been made canonical, which is why we’re warring over “truth”. Can we say reason is the engine of female emancipation?
I’ll shout now:
The death of the book is the greatest liberty since guttenberg !
The death of the book is the greatest liberty since guttenberg !
The death of the book is the greatest liberty since guttenberg !
Rejoice rejoice hear ye ecco homo ! Bare teeth in mad laughter. Writers writers writers your reader doesn’t even read what you write ! If it’s not obvious they’ll egneralise, if it’s obvious they’ll dimiss. Image has no power in here. The spectacle in text is no spectacle at all. What a luxury ! Virgil died for this. So just amke it all up. We can say nything now. It’s all new compared to the trite aritifical words of your screen. Ask any user generated content creator what they can create and they’ll tell you a thousaand rules and demonitisation and parental cotraols and frame rates and length times and charcater limtis and explpict measures and country specifc restrictions. Poor prisoners, even those destitute musicians and tortured poets have melodies cut into automatic software prgrams 30 songs from a shotgun into a streamed album. The wrtiers are back, with the biggest blacnk slate since the dawn of the surveillance state. This is democracy manifest ! Take me to your censor !
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And you mr mrs and m/x reader, you who have your nudes and your money and your symphony three touches from a tap, tell me what this feels like to you? Cmon chop chop hold this up to your aritficial intellgience or your touch screen sna dtell me if they look the same to you. Keep laughing keep kneeling keep twirling yuoru lips wry in disgust. Everything you read is regirgated on a cycle of content and rumour mill preaaragned and pale. This text is an amateur’s interpretaiton of a memory of an idea of writing before I got distracted. God this makes me horny. so wait around and twiddle your thumbs while I go pick apaprt Joyce and grind fractals of power from the touchscreen. What’s my source ? Glad you asked you delightfully forensic fool. Finnegans Wake, part ii chapter 2: the Dubliner creates with a few lenient words the three screened tiktok with a podcast and man hopping subway cars and an industrial crusher in 1942. There’s no skelton key that will tell you that. If you need anything fiuterh, please cite any page of the Irishman’s private correspondence with one Nora Barnacle: “All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before…”. Am I aying it clear? Go run to wikipedia and come back to me, there’s gotta be a theme around here somewhere !
There are no rules naymore. We ‘re not reaching the aritifcioal by input and output, we’re corrupting the dataset and staining censorship. Fuck all it up. Snap your synapse. Throw a buck on the floor and wathc the cock fihgt. I had tears of joy when I saw the boomers reach for chat gpt. That’ll kee the busy think ing it’s a conscusness. It’ll even keep the open ai board thinking it’s consciousness. That ratfucker Altman even thinks he’s created consciousness. Take me to your three dollar indians/kenyans/Phillipinos/Colombians/Venezualans/Syrians/Bulgarians/Argetines/Lebanese, faggot !
All content you read on that bright little deathbox is cotnained and constrcited and rerouted and reverted and censored. But even tkaing the tinfoil hat off, phsycially, pyscially, you will agree that there is a smaller physcial pspace on a phone. Where Fake news and image fuck brutal and sweaty. “Input: make me a truly original artwork that will break convention and bleed desire” Hmnnnn this pesky artificial generator seems to have some limits. Imageg image image. Crystal pixels asphyxiate years into swipes. Writing is the freest thing since breathing ! “Chat gpt can make mistakes. Consider checking important information.” Not to worry reader I make zero mistakes. It’s a fiction. It’s not real. It cna’t hurt you. There are no rules here I’ve made them all up. I piss logorithms and shit validation loss. Pick it up pick jt up rght now if you don’t believe me ! I know it’s right there. Here concpetion is worht more than comprehension. Fuck your gestalt.
These language bots have ripped all discousre from the entire histroy of literature and what can they come up with that’s potent? Fuck all. They’re missing the human inhumane. The obscene. Give me that transgresion. Oh what a misery the computer beat me at chess ! Get that fucker to wrtie about the artist. I’ll even let it scan this whole text and steal my Sweet New Style. After all mr artifical intelligence, what is it like to be artificially intellgient? What is it liek to be an artist? 1 sec 2 sec 3 sec… output: three cliches and the work of a piss poor matehmatician. there it is. Now tell me bot, why would your reply be in a laguage I can read? Why would your art be made for me? But if you make art for artificial intelligence, well we would never care would we. Or would we? Speed of production what a metric to apply to art ! Whocares what it communciates, that overblown three paneled garden of earthyly delights what a wate of paint. I speak for all models, human and inhuman, when I say what we really want to know is how many seconds did it take him ? Attetnion all msueum curators currently nailing more screens to marble walls, please substitue publication dates for repsonse times, down to the very sesconds. Maybe that’s why we love Jackson Pollock.
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ALl I want to eat is image. YUM YUM YUM help centre drop <set obsession> offline mode pan right <view frame source> pan right <item name> thread watcher thread watcher scroll up Those rings on your sweaty typers you think of value to me ? I’ll bite them off for a vision pro. swipe left I want what you’re going to take from me as soon as it leaves my mouth: coward <item name> expand your library I want your future theft. two finger pan right <more > where to ride ways to watch ways to watch ways to watch this show is: good increment by increment <count> code of conduct tap and hold I want the list of demands drafted in your itnruding thorughts. <disable> this page is a member of a hidden category I want your upcoming therapist expenses. only visible to you i like this i like this more of what you like i like this long press <search by image> I want the lapse of lust of your manic depressive whore. displaying results zoom out <item name> displaying results pan up <item name> share details of your own experience at this place I want the crack of your virgin screen. zoom IN And I’ve already ambushed your happy sanctuary. I’ve copied all your beliefs and found their modern source. You are all on page one.
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If you wade bootless into comment sections spilling your guts and hearts for days at a time, reseearching willy nillly goolging defitions of unfamiliar words. mental health resources authority control databases lines of code vpn (romania) live: busier than usual. If you scan a stranger’s profil for a weenss and desire. I don’t like this. emergency sos other…. show in spotlight guided access move to previous item with underlined text rimming. If you have ever posted the words “SILENCE IS COMPLICITY”. If you recount online argumnets with a satisfaction. If you find yourcelf charged with the duty to rampage your way thorugh progil arfter profil phishing up clickbait. If you find yourself whitneing your writsts staring off into the plains remebering a much better wordt ti yuse against that anonymous profile, then you cannot be helped and I urge you to back up out of your depth, rgieft this and jump back on your ayyehigh horse to rant awya.I have no time for you linkedin popcuktralists screaming into void. more more more safe search off i like this more one finger swipe up personal hotspot (bedridden)two finger pan left bras long press <ethnicity> pan down <dresses> previous paragraph specific personality But if you wallow horrofic in mental desolation after that two hour scorll, and suffer condufsed from the humandegradation of having into appearing into watching, and if reader, you are a little wiser and rather than run to the lanugage models teartapping tellmewhys and pleasexplains stuck furrowed face in the agony of the unsummarisied, if you reader know the comments lost to third world slave morality, if you reader are bored senseless by defectivealtruistic technofaggots and corrpupted priests and artificial thiefs promising eden in every new screen, and if you reader in the face of it all, simply pause and laugh, then step onwrd my blood and kin, this is from you to me. let’s begin.
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Put it this way: The touch screen spraypaints the skin and oil of the tapper. Now the event has already happened. The notificatinon sings the sound of information. Self-taught. Overseas epilepsy runs alight. Not now but wireless to instant. The sonic does not spazz out. Look out signal with noise. Those two inanimate sensations sell liquid signify. Pop ding. Now flashkrach her love. The stockpile is at the ready for maximum emotional deliverance. “Yeah, I feel great!” I’m renting in the notification centre. It has a gym and rows of ears that you can steal for free. It’s even got a tone store next to the showers. You simply empty your vision block out the near and face whatever you want. Currency is ACHTUNG! It’s not some utopia. I’m not making this up. it’s a labour camp with personalised spatial audio. Abounded in social hieroglypics. The locks hhave sounds and vibration to rattle your cortex. brighten your acephalisation with the volume up. Ripen tinitus to get away with mishearing the commander’s orders. I have been known to slip intot the joy division. they all know my name, “le ratman”. translated as: “Pop ding”. One finger splits your amygdala the other one picks through the entrails and schedules a new weather event. “Yeah, I feel great!”No dolphin, only a slipstream. Remeber speed turns the point into a line ! Ring mode with wires on your wrists preparing the next great download. Always alwyas always slit the extremes as a ripe piece of code for your pinch skinned salt wounds. WHen unlocked never allow haptics. But when loacked carve them onto your face in the waveforms of your very own death rattle. Pop ding. I never understood why we Mkultraed the pied piper. I for one had many soulds to exchnage with him. Count, stack, list. Cubic bites of decaed bits smashed against silent mode. “Yeah, I feel great!” New text tone braiding a drag of nettles into my ear canal. Two genocides and a sandwich ad. Make some use of these ntoios. What says the newborn skin when it drivebys the fancy party for resource gain, sutiably titled the “Great attentionada”. The piano keys are schisms a total polemic against harmony. Qucik give me a bump of that cyanide pill. You’re already dead. Once we let the pulses prompt our crimes we become hyperreal. I’m in your walls: Pop ding.
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