We often end up getting caught, after a futile but all the more motivated attempt at first-degree self-imitation

Bleeding followers on twxxter. I have been posting, no more than three a night to start, then two and now one unless Israel commits another unusually horrific atrocity (so on average two more than one), an image of a Harris *Flower Joy* poster above whatever horrific atrocity Israel commits to post it quickly

After a day of bathing in magafucks who fucked the shit out of me like only magastupid crackerchristers canaw a twwxt from Hillary Clinton bragging earlier that morning that she was Harris, Hillary Clinton coaches the necessary ipecac when a bad dose of sloppy glee over Gomer Gantry’s crazy fear blinds me to the equal evil that is my legacy team. This list is old but still tasty

When was the last time you thought about Boo Radleys, the black licorice of shoegazer bands? I forget what was controversial about the band and looking it up would be research. You can’t be a one-issue voter, you can’t make genocide the only issue in this election, a tenured professor at Hilltop told me yesterday, then launched into an impassioned argument that defeating Trump is the *only* issue that matters. Think how much further right the GOP will go between now and November, he continued, then abruptly said Needs to go after I said the Democrats will jump in to fill the vacuum on the right left by the GOP. Was curious and checked last night, he unfollowed me on twxxter, whether it was yesterday or sometime earlier during Joe’s genocide, I’m not sure

IMAGE

Frans Wright

From my cell I stared at a cloud, a dog rotting in the woods, etc., as I watched the long-awaited sequel to my Confessions. At that moment my hand was so far away that it looked like a tiny hairless spider whose progress I could barely help following, out of the corner of one eye, as it filled page after page of a postage stamp-sized notebook with words too small to read. I looked up and saw that my bars had turned to gold. And before I forget, I want to be the first to congratulate all of you who have not committed suicide thus far. Camouflaged and lightless congregation, the world will never know your names, never know what its debt to you is, or what you have suffered; with what ceaseless anguish you have sacrificed the one thing that everyone holds dearest, that most people have in common, the feeling of being completely different from everyone else – it simply disappeared at some point, after it had reached its sexually mature and winged stage. You had a great vision of it, but told no one. We have wrongly called death life and life death. You saw another world, and it was exactly the same as this one. This time you told everyone about it, until someone very politely asked you to be quiet. And the weather – everything you’ve heard on that subject is a serious understatement. The scarlet horrors were getting ready to come in for my shameful funeral, they were already swarming freely over my body. Then there was no weather. I can’t tell you how perfect it was. As it happened, I had been staring at the stars in the twilight, as I do more or less day and night, because I like to think they grow younger when I die, come along and tell me what you think. Under torture – a horrible form of tickling, for example – I think I would describe myself as a pretty good egg in hot water. Family motto roughly translates, April Wizards Bring May Snowstorms. We are often eventually arrested, after a futile but all the more lively attempt at first-degree self-aggrandizement; this is not the time for levity, we happen to be talking about a serious medical goodnight kiss. Traditionally, we are then held in a local psychiatric institution known for its celebrated alumni, although in recent decades secret and permanent socialist elements in government have ensured that the lowest scum of humanity now seem to have open access to those once hallowed halls stained with us shit and puke. What I mean is this: after a relatively short stay, we are invariably released with the blessing of a mad doctor or someone else, a mixture of relief and disgust from the staff, and the secret eye signal that gets you into any movie theater in Milwaukee for free for the next year. Some of us like to get together once a day, rain or shine, and gather secretly in the picnic area under those tall, tottering, candle-flaming pines, where neither moth nor rust can come, nor the faintest scream, and exchange obscene stories that border on satanic perversion, each getting his iridescent injection from the same oceanic martini, very dry, about two tears of vermouth, in a forgotten dream.