07_21_26

"The hardest game" is not one you can find in an organized document/spreadsheet that's been obsessed over by fauxgineers and geeks. It is a game in a language you can't understand, in a language you would never want to understand, so far detached from you that you won't even consider its existence. Even finding this game would prove itself "difficult" to you. 

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(All below set to Oh, perispomenon!) 

For A.:
A couple months ago I wrote about life after the end of death. Checking in to a dozen voice messages today, I have understood what I was writing about back then. I have understood the dream I had that led me to even write about life in this way. Sometime last year I had a revelation about The Ghost~Pop Tape, I understood it for its beauty, I became it as much as it became me, we were intrinsically bound in a beautiful way, and this led me to a great deal of peace and prosperity for a few weeks. As I described in an entry, this quickly crumbled, but I feel as though that week of peace and prosperity (of which I have not been able to rival since) is "life after the end of death." The more I talked to you the less I had this life. It is sad we have to part ways, it is sad how mad you got at me, but this is the only reasonable response here. Fare responsibly.

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I do not know a way to wave away that isn't positive.

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Tonight (yesterday night, the 20th) I thought about the future I could lead. I remember when I was starting this blogspot page following life after the beginning of death that I wrote of a yellowed unresponsive page... I wonder if I could take my car out, show it the world as it deserves to see it. We would drive the whole continent, every morning would make us feel precious and cherished, every night we'd be bonded together in company and harmony, singing onwards so as to not fall asleep at our ways, and it would all be to evade life after the beginning of the real nothingness. How long ago was it I wrote of the real nothingness? Nowadays I sit, lacking the limbs I promised myself, in this same room, staring at the same ceiling every night. My computer runs through the night nowadays, much like my car in this beautyscenario, though it didn't use to be this way. How strange it is for me to be this way.

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For K.:
Yesterday (as I'm writing this, it is admittedly still yesterday) I tried to write all about you. I failed. I waxed poetic about whatever's going on right now, and in the end it was quite meaningless. I would not like to try again.