i really wanted a playstation when i was growing up i remember i would play vibribbon or whatever its called on my cousins cousins (yeah) ps1 with his super mer ka 2 cd and that was awesome and shit but at the time i couldnt appreciate it because i didnt know anything at all
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if i believe in ghosts that means theres a chance i have to keep wandering this gay ass earth after i die and frankly thats too terrifying to consider so i refuse to believe in ghosts on principle
i wrote this on a review and then i deleted that review forever ((not actually but its unpublished so youll never find the account i posted it on ((not that youd want to read the full thing anyway))))
...
wyats the significance of star city missouri
michigan
oh well
i guess i could write about that one of these days when i find an album more pertinent to stars youll see ghosts and stars are kinda My Thing if you will
...
so much not caring about ghosts just for all the people you like to be dead
July 3rd 2026:
Maybe we meet in the next plane.
July 9th 2026:
I would like to hedge a bet towards the future. Everything behind me is seemingly once again "collapsing at the seams" like how I described it last year, so maybe structuralism was a flawed attempt at perspective. I would like to believe the future holds something nicer for me. I would like to believe the future will stem its arms and spread them out to hold me for a little bit. And I may shiver, and the future may not be any warmer at all, but the mere grasp will keep me from shuddering for just a little while.
$$
Maybe I should get back into Anti-Idle.
July 10th 2026:
Crying whilst listening to 20,000 Deaths for Eidelyn Gonzalez & Jamie Peterson. Where have we gone? Where will we go? It's time to pray and pray. Another sickly sentimental story tonight: A young boy was held up in strings by the children's hospital, and his caregiver was loft and unoccupied with her duties. She told the boy to find some courage in his self and pick up the glass that was by the end of his table, and so he tried, and so he failed. The glass splintered off into a million cords and chords, and tomorrow the boy will be mercy-killed by the caregiver, as the strings holding him by are growing too large and dissonant. They each emit some frequency and it's all starting to escape the human range of hearing. Tonight the boy will cry, he does not have a favorite song because he never got to hear one. He does not have a favorite toy because he did not get to play with one. He does not have any hobbies, he does not have a favorite meal, he has never seen the color purple. Tomorrow the sky will fade into maroon obscurity as he is brought onwards. Tomorrow night the rain will be purple.
"When I went away I thought about disassociative elements. And what leads to depersonalize, at least inasmuch as your hypothetical hominid is concerned. You feel confused? Pick up a glass of water and feel like you're interacting with a prop on an empty soundstage? Does a wet glass surface feel like skin to you?"
Exactly 51 weeks and 6 days ago I wrote a profoundly long half-published diary entry detailing every part of my structure that was collapsing at its seams. I wrote of relations that were coming to an end and I wrote of every person I had stopped talking to. I wrote about how afraid of the future I was.
51 weeks and 6 days later I find myself still afraid, still trying to recuperate from the hole I dug and crippled myself into falling into, and I chose to do this with the knowledge that maybe things would get better as a result. For some time I had a fake album on a label I do not own with an equally lengthy and confessional length to its nature detailing my life story because I never thought I'd keep going long enough to make it materialize otherwise.
Right now I wonder what the best course is.
Today and many months ago I wrote of a fake story in which Stars of the Lid play a cathedral show and rise hundreds of feet in the air; In its original publication I did not give it a traditional ending, today I did not give it neither a start nor an end. All I wrote was that McBride, just as the audience, looked onward in a hush. Silence! Doubt! Fear.
"It is fear that drives us, it is fear that keeps us humane." It is fear that I have tried to find myself in to little avail. It is fear that makes me stare at the moon, it is fear that makes me stare at red traffic lights and stop like a car, it is fear that makes my eyesight all watery and blurry like a bad camera. I find a lot of reality in this idea of fear. It has kept me going.
✴ I have been employing this design for the past few years to convey all stars, sometimes to convey angels, sometimes to convey robots. It is an eight-pointed star which I tend to draw with the diagonal lines caved-in to differentiate it from an asterisk. I first saw this star when I was inputting various star emoticons for a project, I clicked on this one by accident (which was incorrectly represented as an emoji in my picker) and became mesmerized by its look. Since this point, no other star has compared. No other star has been one I care for. ✴
If it's temporary: I hope you're better when you're back.
If it's forever:
I didn't know you. I was a passing light in your life because you found yourself entranced by my writing. For a long time I found myself heavily at odds with you because of this, and some part of me is currently wrestling if writing this right now is even appropriate because of it. You were a self-described-to-me intricate person with more layers underneath the surface, layers which you never got to show me. You were very curious, as a person and as an object of interest. You were in a subset of internet user I mocked, I never allowed myself to believe you really cared about what I was writing, but in your last few days you came to me and asked how I first learnt I was transgender. I struggled to give you an answer, for in all my time being this way, I never found the comfort in a complete belief that you must have been looking for, and I did not want to give you the same answer I had for myself, "I don't fully know it yet."
I don't fully know if you're gone yet, writing this is preliminary and based on our collective fear over you waving goodbye. You were always gloomy in my time but I know a thousand sad people so I did not take it to mean anything this far. I must admit in my past I've known other suicidal people (that acted in different ways), and I still know one person who disappeared for a few months, but what he did in those months is a mystery he chose not to share with any of us. Currently I sit wondering if you're doing the same or not.
You liked my writing. I appreciate that a lot. You even liked my writing on my first account, which you didn't know was mine. I told you about my album first and you never got to hear it, I apologize. I can't find it, nor can I find it in me, to do anything about now.
Knowing this little about you is complicated now. Wherever you are I hope you're better now. Our last conversation was me trying to explain to you what some terminology meant.
Fly away in whatever wings you wanted most, dear. Rest in peace.
I think you learnt about this song because it was on a review of mine. If that was the case, then that pain I was describing still hurts, and maybe even more now, in a new way, in a new world.
Interpretacion de "Cancion de bañar la luna" aludiendo a los jardines en escalera, y una escena tal cual como la magia de la deriva, soplando y volando entre los ultimos sesenta años.
Ya la luna baja en camisón (En el piso, un reflejo lilac del árbolde jazmines A bañarse en un charquito con jabón casi tal cual como un girasol, te encontrabas asombrada Ya la luna baja en tobogán por unsentido de balance restaurado) Revoleando su sombrilla de azafrán
*Quien la pesque con una cañita de bambú (Imparable la tortuga*Se la lleva a Siu Kiu tal cual como el joven conejo* siempre viviendo *Ya la luna viene en palanquín en imaginaria competencia)A robar un crisantemo del jardín *Ya la luna viene por allí *Su kimono dice no, no y ella sí ♥ *Quien la pesque con una cañita de bambú Se la lleva a Siu Kiu (En esta edad, solo vos recordás la cara que Ya la luna baja muy feliztenias la primera vez que pudiste entender el otoño. A empolvarse con azúcar la nariz♥No es tan maravilloso? Se Ya la luna en puntas de piecaen y caen y caen las hojas, pero después, En una tacita china toma técon toda la fuerza del mundo, hacen como si renacieran.) Quien la pesque con una cañita de bambú\ Se la lleva a Siu Kiu \ ______ __ ~ $ ~ ~ $ ~ ~ ~ ~ $ ~ $Ya la luna vino y le dio tos / . . . . /Por comer con dos palitos el arroz /. . ./ Ya la luna baja desde allá ♥ . . / Y por el charquito-quito nadará ♥
Quien la pesque con una cañita de bambú Se la lleva a Siu Kiu.
(A ticking metronome sways with phronesis-resembling impulse. Between manne and pianos lies a painting of a red horse, a painting of a dead horse, a placed-by-hand 260-glass-rod chandelier, a salt lamp, and a signed vinyl of "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea". This conversation begins at an earlier point and follows an already entangled relation, but the coroner could not piece together anything beforehand, so now you're just left to guess. He believes this is what they call "Miseralia".)
(flickers his brows You don't get it. It doesn't sound (I just can't take it here anymore. by rubbing salt anything like that music you're so much disrespect every day, on the eternnial talking about. I don't know who and I don't even get paid! wound pro- "Wilco" is, or are, or have been, It's all a joke. I'll wake up soon.) -lapsed from prior but clearly you don't understand injustice) what I'm really alluding to here.
This is really simple. You should be embarrassed that I have to even explain it to you. Let's put (On first thought, I thought I would it this way. In the greatest year not particularly love the aeroplane, on this earth, which, we'll say at but I hugged it tight and Holland the same time, one, two, three: welcomed me with love.)
2011 1870 ...
(laughs and How? laughs, for crying 1870? would be like Can you name me a single good thing that happened in 1870? staging a mound Are you a big fan of the Franco-Prussian war? What's going on operation like, like, here? Have you completely lost your Cóndor? he wraps his poor fingers around his brain, mind? Do you wanna trying to remember the real name of the operation, see what they were getting up to in the but like, who even knows? And what's even the f- the, the uh, (Fuck...) relevance of American murder? Forced FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR. I said it structuralized right the first time! I don't know why I impotent even doubted myself. undaringly Isn't that lovely? Isn't that beautiful? grotesque Have you ever witnessed a murder? m u r d e r ?) If you were alive in 1870, I think you would've witnessed a lot more than a murder. May' two? Maybe three? Maybe four? Do you know how to count? Do you want to learn how to count? I'm getting really sick of talking (I thought of murder t o twice, didn't I?) y o u y o u k n o w ?
(Lightheaded. Throat closing in) I... give me a rest, will you.
(My doctor, he comes in, busts through the door, all for no good reason, and he's yelling at me, and he says, "Look, you've got (Quite miserable gagging.) Misophonia.") (And, I don't know what that is, so I try to get him to tell me more, but he refuses, and eventually I start getting real dizzy and feel my throat closing in, just like what's going on now.) (But, (Helplessly abandoned as the door closes.) there's no doctor now, it's just me and the worst pretender I've ever seen, so, am I going to die in this place? Even the thought of that makes me feel worse...) (I think some people are terribly terribly (In resting place...) incapable of thinking.) (I was g... (In resting place...) (In resting place...) (In resting place...)
$$
"I came home on Tuesday and found all of the chairs that I own stacked in a tower in the center of my kitchen. I don't know how long they had been like that but it can only be me that did it. It's the kind of thing a ghost might do to prove to the living that he is still there. I am haunting my own apartment."
$$
Yesterday, before fully falling asleep, I had a dream I had already lived through long ago. There is nothing I remember of this dream right now. (I guess the editor is not used In recent time I have been made to play and experience a to so much weird formatting, lot of things beyond my comfort, which stemmed from years given how much it's lagging of closing myself in, as though to not do so would imply a every time I input anything!) sure death of some sort. I've been trying to break away from being a completely hidden and rotten person lately and although it's all hard and scary I have been attemptedly reassured time and over that "it'll all be okay."(I remember maybe last decade I finished this album, "Runescape Dream", about a relation If I were given another chance at this thing, I went through that changed the course of my I would really like to try out life in the trades, life forever. Making that album was no easy or something else physical like that! In this task! It took me seven painful years, much life I spent most of my time dwelling by inspired and derived from whoever I was into computers and all sorts of these post-hastethrough those years, through which I discovered inventions of the 20th and 21st century. myself and eachother. To say that I was at any set of two days there, "the same person", would I would have liked to enjoy carpentry.be a really sad lie. Tragedy. Miseralia.) (This whole remembrance of Runescape Dream comes from some of the last lyrics on the album, which say, simply,
It'll take some time But somewhere down the line It'll all be good It'll all be alright It'll all be better next year.
and although it did not get better the year after, or the next, or the next, or the next, or... ...the next, it was wishful thinking that kept me going for all this change. You know?)
Emotional dependence will kill you, you know! I guess at least for now I can still hide my opinions from Jazz- and therefore engage in -death of the nonsequi(turi-turi-turi)ty of opening up and allowing my bones to be dug up and explored in-out-around-juxtapositionally-uncardinally-aligned-to-ways-etc... where was I?
I think dissonant jazz is real beautiful. I think noise is real beautiful. I think post-rock is real beautiful when it's done by people so mystic and unapproachable and... androgynous... that I can only bring it in myself to admire them. I think low-fidelity is the best form the music can have, because it shouldn't matter what your equipment is provided you can make the music coming out of it be real beautiful. Of course, you can come in and argue "what about harsh noise? What about...?", but, that's not very beautiful of you to say. Anyway, I think a combination of all four of the previously mentioned (sorry harsh noise) would make a truly beautiful piece of music. And maybe that's just me wishing that Les Rallizes Dénudés had more of a jazz touch to it (they did have a saxophone for a while, but imagine their strength were they to bring in trumpets too! Imagine if they had an acoustic bass! Although, I guess you wouldn't particularly be able to hear it over everything else going on... but a trumpet would've been cool.), but who knows! I think there's something real beautiful that could be found in a combination of all these. Do YOU know any? Is this how I get engagement on my blog posts? Feel free to click on the "title", which should say 07_05_26 because titling things is a sin and involves attachment and connection beyond annexia, and then go down to the bottom and drop a COMMENT with your ACCOUNT. Thanks!
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Snowdream might come true. Scary.
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Still struggling on the Mario end of the battlefield. They're kicking my ass! It's fucked up.
Oh, Sun Ra! Your idea must follow that of mine! Listen and heed, Sun Ra! Come on, Sun Ra! Loosen up on the horseys, Sun Ra! (Does this constitute a Tantacrul impression? That would be quite sad.)
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Not as anything as I was hoping.
$$
A couple seconds minutes hours days weeks $$months years decades centuries millenniums eons millenniums centuries decades years months$$ weekswasfineactually ago I wrote down that I wanted to take the car out and drive through the countryside with the laptop in my possession and make the next theAttitude Era, although the possibility that I'd spend any of that time actually making music is just too unbelievably detached for anyone to pretend like it's the truth, and so, I'd end up crying and freezing to death, where no anthropologist would ever find me, and where no aspect of my sheathself would be perrogative to whatever future investigation of women in the past (misinformed and maladapted daydreamless) will be occuring in the next couple seconds minutes hours days weeks months years decades centuries millenniums eons $$ from now. From now. I'm safe for now. I'll stay for a while longer. I'm not interested in driving when gas is this expensive anyway. I'm safe for now.
$$
I hope historians say we were only ever friends. This is all strange and bizarre and, frankly, I'm not trying to get myself stuck in the bile right now, for my teeth are too quiet and weak and brittle and, and, and, afraid, to try to bite thru the gnaws and hypothetical synthetic gash product hereforever. Hereforever. that's good. I want to use hereforever again.
I'll always be afraid The Iliad didn't prepare me for this But in summer and winter I'll be hereforever.
That's kind of cheating. I just used it as you'd normally use it. Lame. Oh well.
$$
Here to report on a loss of the internet: For some reason if you go to History's (the TV channel) website it redirects you to their YouTube channel? I was looking up information on what was the first music video and I found an article from History (which sounds kind of funny looking back) but like, I can't look at it! All they do is redirect you to their YouTube channel now! Tragedy. Miseralia. Linkrot is real and it's out here to get us all.
$$
New things are turning 20 years old all the time. I saw a review on an album published in 2006, and I realized, that was 20 years ago! In 2006, "In The Small Wee Hours" by Frank Sinatra was only 51 years old. It is now 71. Isn't that crazy? Time flies away and although the other night you tried to trap it in a birdcage, it fluttered out in a manner too majestic for you to lock it back in, so with its neon wings unfurled you watched it return love and power to all the clocks in your house, you watched it re-synchronize its ways, you watched it forgive you and you waved it goodbye. And that's alright. You welcomed it into the same life you took it from like a post-death-relived patient.
$$
Remembered when I was a little kid racing cars with the other little kids of the park, and none of us ever made contact again, but I'll never forget the thrill of automotives. I understand why politicans don't want bikes to succeed.
$$
Really really really love the part at 2:30 on Save A Prayer where the melody repeats on the electric guitar except it bends higher, so high you'd think it was taking you as though you were in control of the hands of time! Stare through your winter angels buried in a snow-white suit.
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On the topic of Duran Duran, The Chauffeur is proto Boards of Canada. Have you ever heard A14? You should. That's the song I'm alluding to. It's very beautiful.
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Click away to let go!
_______________*****************************_____________ X X X X X X X X X the king X X the king X th X X X X X X X $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
get it?
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Ambient idea: *Infinite layers of feedback... (Delay feedback set to 90-105%) *Tape emulation (personally I like Aberrant's plugins for this. You could also use like, Ferox) *Export as 56kbps mp3 then re-encode to flac if need be.
$
Just one. After I wrote the above I found myself wanting to try it out, because it's been a while since I made a song, and sure enough, it worked! I followed my own steps as though they were tight-knit prayers from the Lord Sharifi, where I (am) not allowed to stray from the conventions implanted here...
I can't embed audio files to Blogspot. Shame. The song is called "I found myself sleeping in the same valley where you birthed me" and it is 17 minutes 13 seconds long.
$$
Remember a couple years ago I was looking up something regarding to increasingly ridiculous RAM usage in software and one of the replies was just, "RAM is there to be used.", and I remember thinking that was one of the stupidest things I had ever read. And you know what? Looking at RAM prices today... I'M RIGHT!!! THAT RAM EXISTS IN SOME CAPACITY DOES NOT MEAN YOUR PROGRAM SHOULD BE UNOPTIMIZED!!!!!!
Sorry.
$$
I found my mom's last.fm page.
Zero scrobbles. It's like you hardly had any idea of the relevancy of this in the future.
$$
In a way, we're all burdened by the shackles of debts-of-the-past as though we were Sonemic.
$$
Spent 2000 summers as though if I were to look away from my visualbox for one second I'd be cast into hell for all of eternity and never allowed to return again, with my only hope for salvation serving to set an even higher combo on Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3 (which is in its own way a small form of heaven to a girl like me...)
$$
These Kaizo hacks are making me realize I'm really bad at Super Mario 64.
(Alluding to a movie, untragically) I watched a man die u[pr]ooted in a lack of pr[otection] by throwing his hymnself off a building. It was sad. I never knew the man, so I could not particularly long for him either.
$$
I am deathly ill. Forgive me as I have not been. Binary fission is making the better of me at this instance and I can't stop exploiting newscare unscheduleable drugs for salvation.
$$
Ever since I was a little kid I wanted to see snow in the city I was born in. I could of course go anywhere else in the world where it snows more often, but I missed out on the opportunity to watch snow here, in my form of reality, and isn't that just terribly unfortunate? I wonder if I'll be walking outside, and I'll see all I can't find it in me to forgive, and then the snow will come hailing down as though I were about to turn transparent. Would I be able to cry there? Would that be okay? Would that be acceptable?
Who knows.
It's the peak of winter somewhere down (even though the solstice should've been last month, but, it's fine, everyone's skewed and skewered like little sacs of lamb meat these days), my grandparents called me to let me know it started snowing in their city, which admittedly is only a few hours away from here, but still I could never find it in me to visit that place. It's not where I was born! I don't belong there. I am nothing there. If I were to move I'd revisit Star City(s) from forever ago and settle over there instead. I'd like to walk around my imaginary Michigan prairies with sheep and cattle as though I were in a beautiful and neverending Heidi episode.
Interpretation of Here comes everybody. And it's like, I can hardly feel any form of happiness, and Nothing feels real, it's like, everything's out of place And, who was it who talked about this? Maybe I should've payed attention in philosophy class But I was busy cuddling my friend whilst peering out the window with my looking glass We saw the manhole open, and from it crawled the ants Then marched the bruins and ways, and now, Here come the rats.
Retelling of today, and only today, for I have not yet lived tomorrow, and the past isbeing memoryholed in present happenstance. I walked down in complete opposite to my rutushyual soute and got myasmelf some surgeries. "Black cake" $ "Middleman's moon" $ "Guardian angel" $ "Next Year's Snow" amongst any (hoetel (landlineless))otherians. Landed=:"the job"(although of course Life is not a game, and Life is being capitalized as though it were Of a god, because, it is, but rather: Life IS A misryaro-dio-weak/wiki/weakling/trudgingthroughthemud(bleedingthruthenose)-DIORAMA OF SENSIBILITY WHERE YOUR BIGGEST CROWDIEST ROUDIEST YELL YELL YELL, MY-MUSTbeguidedbythecapital,whichcommandsitsothat$$theanchorofcapitalcommandsitsothat$$theanchorofcapital-uuughghhh...-YOU-YELL, OBJECTIVE IS TO BECOME A SYMBOL OF RESPECT AND INNTURNNE the ELITEENS FAVORITE PASTIME) by which I simply, simply, simply, simply mean I showed up to #RepresentOnSomeBitches down the allwayhighway of eternal elitinfant sensibilia. Had to pretend there was none of that Miseralia! A girl came up to me and asked if I was a ghost. A boy came up to me and asked if I was a woman. I could not answer either question by the time their teachers called to slip them out of such a fishy situation. $$ In alluding to earlier_wheniwaswalking ) still though to clarify in this stillborn Life that it does not hurt to be A**** in usual seasons, but THIS SEASON, it did, it does, it will (Even if I supposedly don't know what The future holds, I can gander and peek and prod at a guess or two or... or... I'm running out of breath. Let's take a stop, let's cruise down, I want coffee, I want soup, this girl... wants soup.) and it seems like it will never end. Tragedy. Miseralia. (_, I spent some time out there imagining I was walking along with my real friend, who in this context was merely imaginario. I know he's real because I've talked to him! I've seen the time it takes for him to type, I've heard the music he's sent my way, I talk about him (isn't that scary?), I think about him when he isn'(t)here (isn't that even scarier?), I find myself inspired by his ways (isn't that horrifying and embarrassing, if not Sickeningly honest and sentimental?) Regaaarrgh(((il)lia)d)less, he wasn't real, neverthelessandmorehowmuchIargeuaboutit, but in a way neither am I, so really it's all okay and beautiful. And... I can't repeat myself anymore. $$ I'm cold. I'm really cold. In solitary I was looking at negative degrees today. It's harsh out there. Stay safe and warm.
Interpretation of Adventures in babysitting. Bile and dog food Worms that glow There's a heaven in this here underground (Fallen bodies cascade into the soundscape) It wouldn't hurt to give it a try (Rotten cronies long to give a try to these adventures!)
Well, I can think about the past now, so Here it comes.
Nobody can come dig up the bones.She's lying there all rotten and bizarre, stuck in her episcera. I remember how long we spent in the past whilst she made me listen to her Game of Thrones podcast. How sad I feel for her about that ending! I remember after she watched it she never felt the same again. I think I get it. But I'll never really know, for she isn't here anymore. She's lying there all rotten and obscure. I don't even know what hospital they keep her in anymore. I don't know if she's even, in any form or capacity or amount or..., material anymore. I think she's only purely solely inmaterially a star, and she brings warmth and love here, so it's okay, really, but she's also brought a ghost I knew closer to this weird brink, and now I think it's a star too, and, I just kind of miss when nobody was a star.
It was very cold "this"(* not to be addressed) morning. I found myself laying down by the insides of my mattresses as though I were a baby spider, naked in fear and drenched in the possibility of immediate death and disappearance of all that I love. I wonder if I've ever ruined the life of some insect I wasn't capable of getting to know. I think I'll go to hell over it. I don't know. I. I. I... I ' m l o s i n g m y m i n d !
Echolalic bubbling is going and happening about in my ears. Discordant. Unsure what to make of it all.
Oh, I can embed music here.
Look! This is what I was alluding to with the echolaaawwwuueeeeeeeeeee...
neverwinter incendiary flamebox lit match ESCAPE from the wicked WAYS in your miraheze GAS CHAMBER with your ETIQUETTE AND BURNING PILES OF HAY all consumed by...
