report 000003: we project

no. 1 (in the basement, smoking a cigarette): so much we fill up with ourselves. it is a damaging fluidity, an imperfect disguise & appalling. i'm tired, but lying - down - appeals less. these senses whelm over & recede. the nihilistic tendency breaks in a wash, sizes up. wheretofore & what have at you. this subversion can only burrow so deep before the sloshing concusses & i fall up against the self. the slow shine & mellifluous saline heralds a retreat; the sestina remains unwritten & cycles through of its own accord, damp & damned and blank. giger must have had it here: smoke & recoil into deep structures of bone & wire. The Preacher too must have known & fell silent in between the active & regressive, after all of it too sliding into silent regions. to imbed overmuch is to outlast opposition & the slight love that startles; but again revealing is a sure path to abandonment. what a terrible word. what a loveless thing. there is truth, apparently, in the contraries that are not opposites in fact but in the seeming. it is very silent here - even the echoes have ceased their answering back & i the narcissist hold steady above this myth & mythos of self & the present hereafter. (opens a window) the feedback loops themselves seem to have stilled for now or some time & i - am falling mad here, talking, a metonymy - the wounded bird & very true to form, very stupid & a saddest thing of knowns & losses. i dislike being alone like this. i fear that form is overwhelming.