2. I don't know my favorite song anymore! I used to confidently say it was Call Me Maybe (the Devon Hendryx cover), but in recent time Oh, perispomenon! has become a kind of philosophical work of the devil which I've made out to guide me the same way Call Me Maybe did in the past. I'm also listening to White Awakening by Les Rallizes Dénudés right now, and going, "woah... maybe this one's my favorite, actually," and this version doesn't even have the second bassline I've come to love so much!
What is the most you've ever payed for a book? I've seen things. Today I walked into a non-local bookstore (shame on me) foolishly looking for books my kind and majestically tucked at the bottom of a very large bookshelf I spotted some by Joyce.
Ulysses for $85.
I recall a few months ago I wrote of finding a CD I wanted for $50 (when everything around it was at most $15) and I walked away pretty defeated from that experience. This Ulysses thing was ironically less than 100ft away from where I found that CD.
In some other light, translation is the work of devils and should not be taken seriously. Sorry, let me try again. TRANSLATION IS THE WORK OF DEVILS AND IF YOU TRANSLATE FINNEGANS WAKE TO REMOVE ITS MYSTICITY THEN YOU HAVE FAILED IT, AND YOU HAVE FAILED ME AND MOST IMPORTANTLY YOU HAVE FAILED YOURSELF. That's more accurate.
I was almost crushed by a dead machine today, it was weird and the whole thing weighed multiple times more than my physical and emotional weight, so in a way it made sense that could happen. I remember there was this interview with Thom Yorke where he says that cars scare him and he's almost died in one, and you look at the lyrics for Airbag and it's all like, oh, you should be grateful you're alive every time you get out of a car, and in a similar way you should be grateful you're alive every time you handle heavy-duty mechanics. Or anything with current going through it. It's no joke! A cathode ray tube television could kill you. One time I was dealing with a wire and I thought I had the power off, but I didn't, and when I touched the exposed copper tip I was almost completely paralyzed for like 30 seconds! It took a lot to turn the power off. These things are magnitudes greater than us.
Yesterday I had a good time.
I've been playing Anti-Idle: Reforged lately. I don't feel like giving more context at this moment in time, maybe another day I'll introduce all none of you readers to it.
It's weird to think that when I was younger there was an infinity of games I missed out on because I only had a computer. I love Tony Hawk's Pro Skater, this is true and a constant to my existence, but a part of me wonders what would've happened if I ever were able to play the Skate games. Maybe their bleak color grading would've pulled me in? Maybe the complexity would've drawn me away? Who's to say! I still can't answer this because I've never played them.
$$
Nostalgia is a murder weapon.
$$
I used to like naming my songs "Like / This" or "Like (This)" (that one still works though) but in recent time I have begun attempting to name an entire song, even with multiple parts, as one thing. This also pertains to my approach to multipart songs nowadays, in the past they were wildly different and not particularly connected so this difference made sense, but nowadays I am much more capable of weaving them together or having a continuous element throughout everything that justifies a single collective name. I have also forever been fascinated by Travis Scott's Rodeo, where multipart songs aren't obvious from grasping at their name, you have to hear them to understand (and even then it might just fly over you...) that they're multiple parts. Why he seemingly abandoned this after Rodeo is beyond me, though. I think in Astroworld there is a small return to this? If my memory doesn't fail me, Sicko Mode and Stop Trying To Be God are both multiple parts, but I haven't heard that one in forever because I don't care for it.
A few months ago I was trying to write something for Goodnight Hypnopomp, I think it was a metafaux(phy)sical quote of a girl who I've never lived through, warning others like her to not fall down her same path. Right now I find myself falling down the path I was actively warning about. This is strange, this is confusing, I don't particularly know what to make of it.
$$
The other day I wrote of abandoning that one person by alluding to Untitled by July, "we were standing a thousand miles away / separated by an ocean" and whatnot. Not how the song goes, not how the song will ever go, not how their lost demo tape has ever gone, not how anything will ever treat us, and in Versailles I'll rot again.
$$
Epic collage is a fake music genre and I don't wanna hear anything about it. That's descriptors of the music at most. At most. At most. At most.
$$
I love you, and I don't know what to make of it now. I have returned to Oh, perispomenon! for I don't know what to make of this without it.
How does anyone know that what they make is special? What do they see in it?
Usually this is difficult to answer, and even if you are that person, even if you see that special thing, you can't put it into words because it's an otherworldly visceral feeling of certainty that what you make has a place in the material/immaterial domain. Right now, I don't know that what I make is special enough to put it out there. That's why I'm putting it out there regardless. For years I have sheltered everything I ever made so it wouldn't see the light of the world, and I'm sure my songs and voice appreciate that deeply, but subconsciously we all know that this has hurt us in the long haul. Right now I am trying to change that. Don't expect anything interesting.
$$
I would not like to make another album for now. Maybe if there's some stability in my life down the road this could be explored, but as it stands the few ideas I have for albums are unreachable and I do not find myself in the position to start building a ladder towards them. This also goes for "the game" which I will acknowledge here just so in the future I don't think I was making it up.
07_06_26, which took a lot of effort to format, has now disappeared off my recent posts.
$$
I do not want to harm you.
$$
Shiiiiineeeeee... I think in the near infinite eternity when bloom has come to kill us all, it will be playing Glass splinters. (you know why I picked this one if you've heard it) and all we'll have to say is, "thank you, thank you, thank you. You're right, I'm sorry for getting rid of you," whilst the dagger and knife and all-else Glaive-Guisarmes of its ways impale us.
$$
"Uhh... I am... The Rockwood Escape Plan... and this is my new song, it's called- it's called ODB. Thank you, thank you."
25. [The last, ever, for someone] [Real contents redacted for the time being, and because I don't have access to this thing currently]
26-27. Leviathan interpretation Unbeckoned reality's wrath as the newbound material.
$$
I am a weird foreign stranger to real talk. All I can bear to understand these days is the dialogue from the boy and lady in Oh, perispomenon!. All I really know nowadays is this Coin locker lens I constructed. I brought this onto myself. Regardless: It is ostensibly a weird point beyond reality where this inexperienced boy, and this older, wiser, further consumed lady, discuss their life and relation as it stood. I think this place in perspective is reminding me of the present as it stands. It is kind of similar to The absence of soil, air, and law., mostly by the end where the lady once again crumbles her veil and from it is revealed Devyn utilizing her to express something (boredom in absence, cassettes in perispomenon) "real."
In recent time I had to cut ties and burn away the rope from which I stood in some material form, from a due-lap of excess stress (typing all this is making me think of Duchamp, I'm not sure why although I'd appreciate his input at a time like this... Sélavy, save me...) all caused because I am too foolish, and new to this, and, above all, afraid. For a while I thought about giving in to this life I was being offered (described in some form on "- Traumagenic") but that must've been a year or two ago by now. It has all really been a lot, none of it feels particularly real, and neither of us have become better by the abandon and wreck of this ending. Similarly: In Memory of a boy (who doesn't exist.), the boy, who the lady can't find (as he has disappeared into her by this point in the album) speaks out to her, to give her his last bit of advice: "I will not return, but still you'll keep your head up. Everybody learns, the end is the end."
Even if the boy could magically come back as he seems to do in Empathica, this would not matter, for the boy would not be the same boy, the lady would not be the same lady, and the river in which his mom should be buried is not the same river (for it has seen a thousand new clouds and a thousand new fishes). It is understandably difficult to accept a farewell, it is understandably difficult to accept a disappearance. I have disappeared in the past, it was not an easy task and it hurt me deeply, as I'm sure it hurt my friends also, but these things happen for a reason...
$$
I remember when this was a normal blog, and I got to talk about Super Mario 64 and whatever album I was listening to at the time. Today someone tried introducing me to Leaving Xilent Trodden as though I did not know about it, and admittedly I did not connect the dots that "brone" and "brony" are two different things, but by the end we made amends and figured this way of life.
$$
i am your girl and i will never forget you and i will tell every person in your family and i will make sure it all ends up okay we will be great and in love together we will love eachother together you will never be alone again i'll never be alone again we were meant to be together i was meant to be on this path with you i was meant to end up on the ways with you i was meant to lie still with you i was meant to get off with you at the same train stop at the same bus stop i was meant to open the key with you to our same apartment to our same house to our home.
$$
i feel closer i feel closer i feel closer i feel closer at the helm at the helm at the helm at the helm i feel closer i feel closer i feel closer i feel closer at the helm at the helm at the helm at the helm closer closer closer closer
(by the end) ( by the rend ) ( at dawn ) ( staring at the sun ) ( holding my tea ) ( spooning my gun ) ( by the end ) ( by the rend )
"The hardest game" is not one you can find in an organized document/spreadsheet that's been obsessed over by fauxgineers and geeks. It is a game in a language you can't understand, in a language you would never want to understand, so far detached from you that you won't even consider its existence. Even finding this game would prove itself "difficult" to you.
$$
(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.
$$
I do not know a way to wave away that isn't positive.
$$
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.
$$
For K.: Yesterday (as I'm writing this, it is admittedly still yesterday) I tried to write all about you. I failed. I waxed poetic about whatever's going on right now, and in the end it was quite meaningless. I would not like to try again.
"In the effort of becoming a toy..." - Traumagenic
$$
19. "I don't want to turn into you." A ghost hugging another ghost, with tears and tears, as they watch the strings of plight descend down them. One of the ghosts nowadays remembers this by the memory of Splitter.
20-24. Melancholy can be carnivorous. The past is deadly.
Death in a real lovely memory. Had a truly bizarre dream today which I cannot even write down, although I will keep in mind the sequence in which hanging over an overpass was an apartment, with two rooms on opposite sites connected by a large tube. I saw two women, perhaps ten feet each, enter opposite sides. It would appear the man inside paid them to orchestrate all of this in front of my eyes.
Cheers to the future; because we all go away; because we all swell up and convulse and froth at the mouth. (I realize this is hard to understand nowadays, given my complete eradication and riddance from the site where the writing that originates this thought spurred into... one of these days I'll figure something out.)
Regarding an idea from earlier today: Livonia is a city. Livonia is not a town. Livonia can be an aquatic paradise that Oceanus and all related birth and kill. I'm not sure yet.
I wish I had my old confidence back. I wish I had my old words back. Back then, back in the backways, I was able to write about being two as though this wasn't a common experience, because it wasn't, it was new and scary. It was all scary. It was all uncertain. Today I stare at the mirror and I see a hypothetical hominid recreating every inaction I take, and I wonder what's going on through that mind, because here in this mind I can't see the half of it... it's all so confusing.
9. Going away A conversation between two ghosts asking what it means when one says, "When I went away..."
"Did you go away?"
"We both did."
11. When I went away Confessional. Sickeningly sentimental. "It would take something monumental and gargantuan for me to ever change."
12-13. Campfire scene A two-page split drawing of a house, two ghosts, and the campfire in the rural nearbyhood. There is smoke coming out of the campfire and the rightmost ghost has its tears attached to a balloon and to the campfire.
14. Make like a A weather globe (one of those that go up and up) crudely drawn with the balloon carrying it uptop being filled in. Kind of looks like a child.
15. Change your life! Sporadic hair growth concludes the balloon, a V shape in the middle.
16. Blight. A ghost (maybe two) being strung in light from the top-left corner.
17. Upkeep Word-art over a lack of updates to the blog.
18. Sueño Adaptation of something overheard, "how scary it is to be any thing."
1. "It's a memory!" Inside is large red text reading "CUADERNO DE RECUERDOS 2026". You're unsure who wrote it.
2. Introduction You wrote this yourself, it calls back to a February review of an album by a friend you like. It finishes by saying, "To a better year; to better years."
3. H./H. [PLEIADES] Ordinary table of contents. You organized it by day then month, rather than usual
4. The rat()race It is an abstract drawing of a rat trekking over a city/mountain. It kind of looks like a train.
5. Episcera(*) This does not exist
5. Solipsism story(*) This does not exist
5. Triangular prism Drawings of teeth concluding in something akin to the smile and cheeks of Discordia.
6. Sons & daughter A split of three; Writing saying "We have left the room" over and over in variations due to a misunderstanding, a road, and a bed with birthday balloons strapped to it, floating over nothing.
7. Ghost Encased in a crude frame, hollow. Some hints of pen damage to the page
8. The ghost of A ghost with hands. These are rare. "My hands are attached by courtesy of a lightning rod. These only happen every so often, you know, so it's kind of a big deal."
"When I went away ... my mother looked at me as though she had finished killing a doe."
10. Maladapted copy Derivation from spying, "Who am I? How am I?" and current interests.
"The kid not letting me sit how I want on the bus will never be like me. His friend, a dedicated football player who's been yelling his lungs off, will never be like me. Their other friend, who they seemingly neglect in a way, will never be like me. The mom to one of them, who I could not identify (perhaps they are brothers, perhaps they are losers), will come back home and drink herself to sleep. In this sense you could say she is like me."
$$
Not in a million years could I place myself in this city when I'm staring at a map, or when I'm on the bus, but the second you drop me at my feet it's like I could walk those million years without ever getting even remotely lost!
i really wanted a playstation when i was growing up i remember i would play vibribbon or whatever its called on my cousins cousins (yeah) ps1 with his super mer ka 2 cd and that was awesome and shit but at the time i couldnt appreciate it because i didnt know anything at all
...
if i believe in ghosts that means theres a chance i have to keep wandering this gay ass earth after i die and frankly thats too terrifying to consider so i refuse to believe in ghosts on principle
i wrote this on a review and then i deleted that review forever ((not actually but its unpublished so youll never find the account i posted it on ((not that youd want to read the full thing anyway))))
...
wyats the significance of star city missouri
michigan
oh well
i guess i could write about that one of these days when i find an album more pertinent to stars youll see ghosts and stars are kinda My Thing if you will
...
so much not caring about ghosts just for all the people you like to be dead
July 3rd 2026:
Maybe we meet in the next plane.
July 9th 2026:
I would like to hedge a bet towards the future. Everything behind me is seemingly once again "collapsing at the seams" like how I described it last year, so maybe structuralism was a flawed attempt at perspective. I would like to believe the future holds something nicer for me. I would like to believe the future will stem its arms and spread them out to hold me for a little bit. And I may shiver, and the future may not be any warmer at all, but the mere grasp will keep me from shuddering for just a little while.
$$
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?)
