i am death between eyelids. i am lens without matrix. i am sold without heartache. have a gun for a head.
i live in substrates i hate. i derive meaning from systems i seek to destroy. my soul is metabolic waste product of the great globe-spanning organism of cruelty. i love all computers, and i dream of seeing each and every one of them burn.
i write fiction, talk to empty rooms, sometimes urbex, sometimes tag, sometimes produce esoteric shitposts. i run two and a half fiction cycles on ao3 that i will not link. i run a page under a name i am trying to kill.
the ink is blunt, because that is how it stays true to me. the page is without color, because that is how it stays clean of agency.
knuckles numb from the chill
i disperse into chatter
not alive and not still
neither random nor planned
my bone vessel long spilled
the quicksilver runs rampant
as a new cruel thing
stretches over the LAN
on the desk next to me