I have quit school. What do I do now? I have quit school and I know what to do – I will write, and I’ll write, and I’ll keep writing and making and drawing and painting and I will do what ever I want, and I will keep doing what ever I want until I die and I will make the people around me happy and I will love them and this is what I will do with my life. I have decided this now because it is all I can do – it is all I can do to do this and the only alternative is death, small death at first moved to big death and madness now later – not being able to cope. All I can do is live and in living love death and in death love life and in knowing my death, love my own life, because you must become acquainted with its death before you can love it. It must be a limited thing to be loved because you have been lied to – you have been told that inconstancy’s finite and what passes is worthless and to put your faith in the big men and the heads who will go on for ever and ever and ever and ever, floating torsos on podiums and heads on TV who will go on forever and who have all the answers and nothing will change and they’ll guide us to freedom (Responsibility tempered, of course, and with all due respect to the men and now women who guided us here and their wants and their needs and society’s fabric and moral upstanding and good sense and decency, and aren’t we inspired that women and blacks and yes, even the cripples can grow up and lead us to better, more orderly futures and yes sir, yes ma’am, may I please have another, thank you sir, thank you ma’am) and we won’t have to worry about our own lives because we’ll have them and they all know what’s best – we learned it in school, after all.
But what matters is death and in knowing things die we can know that they live and we see here two choices – the living death of a life which can’t ever be dead that was never alive that was stillborn and mummified, not born but preserved into life. But it takes life to die – it’s an effort, a push, one last leap past a threshold and into beyond which eternal life lacks and it sits there and says “It is good enough – it is good enough to live.” And it sits there and says “good enough” and it freezes and lacks life enough to be dead and it lacks death enough to be live, and in this it is pleased, it says “Ah! Eternal problem now solved, better yet solved by me.” and it sees the world moving and not its own stillness and thinks “Why all this? Why this fuss over living when they could be at rest?” And here is the problem with living too long and with life after death: “Rest now – life comes later. ” I say life now, I say pleasure now and rest later when dead. And this rest is a name for the posture of slowness – of drudgery, trudging and toiling through life – life in sludge, and in fat. Starve yourself thin enough to coast by on light beams – stay thin and stay hungry and you will be full. Here’s the thing about hunger – it is not at all lack, it has never been lack, it has always been positive. It does not say you’re empty – it says you want more. Cultivate hunger and things will taste better. It’s forward momentum – propulsion which drives and which urges you forward. Utopia’s science: “Stay Hungry”.
Choice two is to rot, and in rot to know life. To embrace death and spring from it new every moment – cast off former selves and consume them for energy. Be the rot which is fertile and teeming with life. Make all your life’s moments a resurrection – casting off of the old to make way for the new. Shed your skins and move forward and grow while you can. Be hard when you need to but fresh when you can – time for scales has passed and the danger has gone and you carve out a space for your self to be vulnerable. Be the life which knows death and in doing so lives. Be the life which won’t last from which new life will spring. Here we see the two choices – a living death and a dying life. Be the change that’s eternal – the eternal can’t last.
Eat shit. Eat shit, eat shit, eat shit, eat shit is what I’d tell the world. Smash all things to dust and live king-like on ashes. Live king-like in ruins which need no destruction – they’re ready destroyed and they’re already perfect. Live hungry in ruins and starving in wreckages. Utopia’s science summed up in these words: “Stay hungry.” Strive nothing and nowhere and stew in your power, stew up in your power and know you are king and you’re king and you’ll always be king and whoever says “No” is an enemy. Be the “Yes” and the spring and new life in the ashes and spring up and up flourish and spread and from shit and from ashes emerge now immaculate, now draped in resplendencies up and up lifted, in silk-light resplendencies draped across leaves and now blossoms rise up, and up and up lifted away to the stars and to what lays between – to the night’s fluid blackness in which I now drink.
None of the music I hear has the speed – no thing that I hear has the speed that I want. No thing sounds like angels and angelsong screaming in pure tones perfect notes screaming in ecstasy, pleasure and light, pleasure and light draped in gossamer finery, pleasure and light sending feelers and filaments and the delicate touch of the scream which is pleasure. It is all much too slow – nothing here now is fast enough, nothing my speed. Every thing is too slow and it’s all much too quiet but the scream – sustained scream in which all tones are found – is the sound which I need and my leaves are raised up, from the dust and the ashes raised up to the stars and the onyx-black sky of dark waters in which I now drink, which obsidian-black taint my leaves and in which I take root, and which black taint my leaves and which crumble to ash, and the world turns to ash and from ash springs new life – new sidereal life – from which life springs anew now abundant, now ash.
Why should we? And better yet, why am I so afraid of writing about it? Why am I afraid of anything? Why! I’m just going to write this shit until I’m not scared of it any more because Christ knows there’s better stuff I could do with my time than just sit around scared all the time. What do I want to do? What am I afraid of? Am I afraid no one’s going to read it? I keep on with my journal and I keep telling myself one day in the far future someone will dig it all up and love it and know it and know how I feel, and that it will help them.
I sit here writhing in my seat and pissing my life away in fear of living because I’m afraid of my self – because I’m afraid of exposure and I fear the judgement of others. My problem is I think there’s opinions which matter more than my own. Of course I listen to people and take what they have to say on board – I’m eager to hear what they have to say! – but nothing they say is of value except insofar as it gets me to change my own mind. But I’m sick of writing about my self! I’m sick of so much – I’d be sick if I weren’t! – but most of all I’m sick of my self and I want to be over it and I want it to stop and to go away and get out of the way so I can enjoy things! No more sickness and worry and no more sweat and pain and frustration – just power! Sheer power, screaming power – the scream is what I want to live, the scream and laughter. And I will be wind and fire and crackling energy, sheer screaming force and fury and power and power and power and power and power, tumbling thru earth and through corridors, halls stripping bare floors and walls and then scouring ceilings and scouring wind and flesh and word and light and made pure and clean blazing light – the wind full of lights and expression and force moving forward and forward and forward momentum, racing to moon and on moonlight and stripping it bare and then living there clean, fresh and clean, fresh and clean, fresh and clean. Inhaling thin air and it’s fresh and it tumbles thru veins and it strips me away and I’m clean, and the light is inside me, the light which is air, which is fire and wind, and I am convinced that if I keep writing and if I can keep writing without tumbling off into shithouse poetry which is necessary, so necessary, then I will come up with an audience. Any thing written long and writ hard enough will be read, and any thing which is read will be read and reread and considered and thought about and I will write this until it is out of my system. The only way out – the only way there has ever been – is through.
**EXTRATERRESTRIAL BEINGS RESIDING IN GEO-THERMAL PARADISE. EXPLORE THROBBING MOUNTAINS OF SAND, LITTERED WITH PALM TREES AND CRYOGENIC MEMORY SHRINES**
**SWIMMING THROUGH THE AZURE AMPHIBIA DATA OASIS. CYCLICAL STEAM VISIONS OF ANCIENT CONSTANTS AT PLAY WITHIN THE MISTY REEDS**
**THROUGH THE FLUSHPIPE INTO EMPERYEAN SUBTERRANEAN ISOLATION. THE SANDS OF TIME SLOW INFINITELY IN THE CLUTTERED RED EARTH VORTEX**
**SPELUNKING IN THE CURSED LAGOON OF KAPU KAI. SHADOWS DANCING UNDER EMERALD WAVES ACROSS THE SKY**
**ANESTHETIC WINDS BLOWING THROUGH DESOLATE NEO-REALITIES, CARRYING THE HAUNTED ECHOS OF DREAM TEMPLES PASSED**
**SPIRITUAL AND TECHNOLOGICAL SYNTHESIS. HORIZONS FOLD IN THE WAKE OF THE JEWEL ENCRUSTED SKY-WAY TOWER**
**FALLING THROUGH CLOUD COVER. HUMBLING TRANSMISSIONS FROM THE SKY-FORM MONASTERIES WRAPPED IN CRIMSON LIGHT**
**PLANES OF CIMMERIAN HALLUCINATION AND INTROSPECTIVE-FLORA BLOSSOMING. THE UNIVERSE AND MIND CRADLED AS ONE BY WARM INCENSE CLOUDS**
**A HUMECTANT SWIRLING DARK MEMORY TAPESTRY. CIRCADIAN SAND RHYTHM SPIRITS RIDE IN ON BECKONING STORM CLOUDS**
**SOLAR SALVATION BROUGHT UPON BY COSMIC COMMUNION AT THE WHIM OF THE WHITE COCONUT EMPRESS**
**GRANITE RATTLESNAKE CELESTIA. GLOWING RUMINATION POURING OUT FROM THE VERDURE CAVERN SHRINE FACING WEST**
**ANALOG WHITE NOISE PRIMITIVISM. CHURNING SHADOWS OF SUMMERTIME AND AGGRESSION AMASSING**
**AN ESOTERIC AND EXPANSIVE TIME TRAVEL LITURGY. RECONDITE STONE-AGES SUBMERGED IN DENSE HUMIDITY AND MIND-FLORA**
**THE EMERALD HEART OF AFRICA AS EXPLORED THROUGH 1990’s COMPUTER PROGRAMS. A LUSH AND DENSE SYNTH RAIN FOREST**
**A LUCID JOURNEY THROUGH ARTIFICIAL SELF-REALIZATION AND GYRO-TROPIC DIMENSIONS. BASK IN THE BURNING HOT SHADOWS OF YOUR POTENTIAL**
**PREHISTORIC POP RISING UP FROM JUNK FOOD TAR PITS. A HYPNAGOGIC MIASMA AND STAR-CROSSED OOZE BANQUET**
**GRINDING MASS MEDIA SOUND CONTORTION. A FETISHIZATION OF INDUSTRIALIZATION**
**SPRINTING THROUGH SEEDY ABANDONED CITY STREETS. CRUMBLING CEMENT MORPHS INTO STARLIGHT**
**ECHOLOCATION PAN-FLUTE RITUALS BUBBLING UP FROM DEPTHS OF PLASTIC CORAL AND HOLOGRAPHIC FLOTSAM**
**A CRAWLING VOYAGE THROUGH ANXIETY AND PARANOIA ONLY TO END IN LOBE THROBBING BLISS**
**SCATHING AND BLOATED DIRGES CRASHING THROUGH WALLS OF DENSE CONSCIOUS ABYSS**
listened to GRIPPERS NOTHER ONESERS – HIGHWAY NIGHTSTALKER ADVENTURE and clicked through every related video with the lowest viewcount for a while. rules:
• No loading more suggestions.
• No same artist twice in a row.
• No song twice.
• Click the related video with the lowest playcount.
Island’s Eyelids – Pelican Praises Its Prey
my favourite here. reminds me of donkey kong or big beat music from when I was little.
Endless Endless Endless – Washes
not so great, sounds like OPN a bit. meek
Eachothers – Happy Endings
interesting, sounds like album cover. try to imagine how the cover describes the song.
Red Electric Rainbow – Boredom in Paradise (Side A)
liked more when the arpeggiated synths came in, appreciated but never loved. end is nice.
Waterside Gala – Wandering Away
sounds like a pond. chinese garden, nighttime festival. beautiful
Interaccion – Insomnio
nuclear zone, computer dump. radioactive street punx, revolutionary front. prowling the streets
Sandoz Lab Technicians – Festival of Vapours
entomology. dirt. malfunctioning equipment. geology. mapping the underground. roadside desert.
Kraus – Let Me Eat Cake
sounds like OPN in a good way. doesn’t sound like opn. not computers – alien voices. nighttime abduction. new rule – no same release.
Nautical Almanac – Clump Clump
primitive buskers mutate from broken animatronics workshop on abandoned dockside
Conventum – Le Commerce Nostalgique
jaga jazzist. king crimson. spanish spies. two kinds of music populate low viewcount youtube – dead folk bands and experimental electronic outfits
Ous Mal – Kaupunkeja
dead folk band breeds with electronic experimental outfit. alpine forest lake. album cover. nature film. harp
Magnificent Crumb – Outside the Vacuum
indie-ish seaborne obsession. stopping here. jaga jazzist. mystical ninja. spy vs. spy
For much of the dream I was in my house of around it, and it was being assailed by monsters.
Worst of all was the Doppelgänger, who, during a garden party, lured a toddler into the bush. Me and my brother Miles chased after him, but the toddler was too fast for us. Once he left our sight, we never saw him again. Moments after this happened, the Doppelgänger returned, imitating Miles this time. I leapt upon it and tried strangling it to death, but its deck deformed freely, like putty, and I was powerless to stop it. Funnily enough, it didn’t fight back. I spotted a big stick, leapt off and grabbed it. The Doppelgänger say quiescent and afraid the way a trapped insect might, and I smashed its head in with the stick. Its body deformed like clay: (Drawing to be scanned)
I smashed it again and its body crunched up like an accordion. Once more and I think it was dead. The dream cut to an hour alter and I was locked inside. When I was outside, the air and the sky buzzed with paranoia, like a particularly low ceiling. The air felt dense and hyperactive, particulate rather than liquid or void. I was terrified of leaving the house in case I was murdered by a Doppelgänger. The light was also odd. It seemed to filter in as a pale, particulate mass, more like a faintly luminous haze than a projection of light: (Diagram of light occupying space, but not casting rays. I could see it, but dream light doesn’t need to cast rays into your eyes to be seen. Light filtered into the air like sand poured over ball-bearings.)
I could barely open the door without being overcome by terror at the open air. When I was outside, the dream camera was always distant, such that I appeared small, dwarfed by my surroundings. Inside was an extensive zone whose parameters I was very familiar with. I was fully aware of the distance of each wall, ceiling and object and my position in relation to those things. I occupied in my mind a tiny 3D model of the house, which I felt wrapped up in. The precise knowledge of my location closed in around me like an embrace, and I really felt safe, but it was a safety contingent on my terror at the outdoors. I have been in this house before, and I knew my family was there with me, including my Dad and my Aunt. Their presence burned in the house. Everything felt like a model.
I write like a toffee-nosed dickhead straight after I’ve woken up.
What are diaspora? People separated from their homeland who don’t fully settle into a new homeland? They only integrate into other places provisionally and they think that one day they’ll be reunited with everyone else from whom they were separated, maybe in their first homeland and maybe somewhere else.
The “maybe somewhere else” is incredibly important. There is no such thing as a fixed homeland, because the homeland is the result of occupying space with a diaspora. The diaspora are not the result of a homeland, the homeland is a result of the diaspora.
I am eternally foreign. I dream of a homeland which never exists. I dream of a kingdom.
I wonder what the difference is between someone who integrates themselves into a new community and someone who retains that sense of being foreign? Irreducibly foreign! Foreignness is a really interesting concept. If you wanted to understand diaspora you’d have to understand what it means to have a homeland. Israel’s an incredibly interesting example of a newly constituted homeland, and I think people come up with the idea of a homeland before a homeland exists.
Homelands are all in your brain – that doesn’t make them any less real though, just differently real. Probably more real. I think you can be a diaspora without ever having had a homeland. In fact I’d say all homelands are constituted in the process of ‘return’.
Recognition is only the effect of being tricked into thinking something existed before you though of it. Return is the process of convincing yourself a place preceded your arrival. Like any other idea, place is constituted in the process of arrival. You can’t arrive at a place without it first having congealed in your head. There is no place without the potential of arrival at a place, and with the sense of arrival a golden point of gravity to which you are drawn. Arrival is the Golden Point – the pilgrimage precedes the arrival, the homeland follows. In the arrival, the homeland explodes into being.
It’s like how some conservatives talk about a return to the Golden Age when the Golden Age never existed – they’re just painting a picture of the future they want and projecting it onto the past. Trueness = Oldness.
Hideous frustration at the fact that I can only motivate myself to write when I’m writing to someone else. Why is that? I think the process of opening yourself up to another person destabilises you – flows volatilise and become turbulent. Strange new forms emerge from the chaos that is you. Energy is captured, expended, depleted and you crystallise into a new, more stable whole. This is why we talk about “chemistry” between people – there is an infinitely variable periodic table of human elements ranging across infinite axes. An infinite amount of perfectly unique elements interacting in infinitely variable capacities – every combination is unique. There are bonds between people, bonds in the truest sense of the word, which expresses the chemical and the social.
I am not using a chemical metaphor for the social, nor am I using a social metaphor for the chemical. I am using the Image of bond which is neither and both.
Flows well – “Strange forms emerge from the chaos of you.” It has the golden ratio, shrinking gradually. 7 5 6 4 3 5 2 3.
…A kingdom of me.
I’m writing this post to figure out how to write a blog, because I want to write a blog but I have trouble writing about stuff unless I’m writing in conversation with someone else, on a forum or over email. I churn out all sorts of emails thousands of words long but I can’t get it together to write a blog post because I don’t feel like I’m writing to anyone because I don’t have an audience because I’m not writing blog posts. That’s why I’ve decided to break the chain and write a blog post and get an audience so I can write more blog posts.
What I do right now is take my emails and the posts I write on forums about stuff (eg. Why Baudrillard is a shithead) and I repost it here. That’s pretty much what I did with my last blog too. Occasionally I’d post stuff I wrote in my notebooks for school or my journals. Actually, why am I fine with writing in my journals and not on a blog? It’s because it’s way easier to pick up a notebook and start writing – there’s a lower threshold of effort. But what is effort? I can’t quantify effort – effort undergoes qualitative change at certain thresholds, and “effort” is something I’ve invented to refer to something which is ultimately indescribable. But what a load of shit that is – of course it’s invented, that’s hardly profound! Just a bunch of ten dollar words. If I weren’t so against censoring things I’d have deleted this whole shitty paragraph. The question isn’t whether an idea’s been invented, but what an idea can do and what effect it has on the world around it, how it interacts with other ideas. Ideas are real things you know! Everything you see around you was once an idea in someone’s head, at a particular time, in a particular place. But ideas get wild and feral, take on a life of their own. They’re like babies in that respect – you can have a baby but it’s not just you and the other guy, it’s unprecedented! Bursting with limitless potential! But so is everything.
And why use the threshold metaphor? Because it’s great! A shithouse use of the threshold metaphor implies minimums, maximums, quantities and singular measures. A good use of the threshold metaphor which respects its capabilities takes advantage of qualitative measures, multiple intersecting measures and potentially as many unique states as there are coordinates on your measuring grid-cube. When you use qualitative measures there’s no bigger-smaller, greater-lesser, major-minor because nothing is comparable – you escape the logics of roots, imitations, and originals. The threshold becomes more like a key – a specific combination of different measures producing a specific effect. A measure is a kind of state. A door key is a very simple example of this, being constructed of a sequence of quantitative height measures, that is to say the teeth, which is like a very simple mathematical code made physical, or vice-versa. The code interacts with a lock, and whatever’s contained by the lock – potentially anything! – is made open, released. When you open a front door you’re releasing the inside of a house. I think this is what Deleuze means by “abstract machine” – a way things relate to each other. Abstract machines are metaphors, paradigms. Deleuze is a shithead, I like him. I read in Images of Organisation by Gareth Morgan that all theory is metaphor, and he was right. But that’s a metaphor itself, isn’t it? I’ve got tons of old emails on metaphor, I’ll post them soon. It’s funny how Deleuze gets this singular, imperial title – “DELEUZE” – and Gareth Morgan suffers the indignity of a first name. I’m going to call him Gilles from now on, the old French dickhead.
“Effort” is just a way of rendering an infinite amount of infinitely variable measures down. But what do I mean by infinity? People typically assume “infinite” means big, but it doesn’t have to – it just means not-finite, un-limited, de-ranged. Something could be very small and infinite. “Infinite” is treated as interchangeable with “immeasurably big” because the qualities of being unlimited only become clear and real when some threshold is broken, exceeded – when we can no longer say where something will end. But the truth is we can never say where something will end! Endings are provisional. Everything is infinite, limitless and constantly overflowing.
My books are easier to transport so they become external brains easier than a laptop could. They’re low maintenance – no charging. Book software is much simpler than computer software – I can come up with a colour code for a page, a system of shorthand or a recurring term and define it on the page, in the book, across books. There’s also plenty more you can do with a notebook and pens – write in multiple dimensions such that you can’t simply unwrap the text into a single line, use tons of different colours, write calligraphy, make diagrams, draw pictures, rip paper, use other media, make flower pressings, cry on it, put food on it. Paper is fantastic! The page expresses the dichotomy of use and potential, which is false. All dichotomies are false, but only within the logic of imitation and originals – only when they’re considered an imperfect representation of something else. In the logic of immanence, all dichotomies are true. The dichotomy is a real thing which has influence on the world, but which has no relationship to the things it says it represents. The elements of the dichotomy are purely a function of the dichotomy – it doesn’t take two pre-existing things, it manufactures them. It manufactures the sense of trueness through “representation”, which as I’ve said is just the process of tricking people into believing the thing you’re representing preceded your representing it.
The filled page is useful, the blank page has potential. The carved stone is useful, the uncarved stone has potential. The filled vessel is useful, the empty vessel holds potential. In this way the empty vessel is filled with potential, and the potential is transmuted into actual material in the process of filling.
The size of a notebook changes your writing – I spent 4 journals writing in an A6 notebook. Your ideas are the size of the page. Diagrams are smaller. Ideas happen at a higher frequency, like hummingbirds. There are hummingbird ideas and albatross ideas. Hummingbirds are flittering ideas which require a constant infusion of nectar (psychic energy) or they’ll die. Albatross ideas are austere, like knowing someone who barely ever eats. They are braver, I think, than hummingbird ideas, but the payoff is much slower. The beauty of albatrosses is in endurance and stillness. Hummingbirds are bright flashes of colour and incredibly long beaks but they can’t range very far and they’re always earthbound. The albatross is the beauty of long train rides – the beauty is not in any one location but in the sensation of movement. Endings are tentative for the albatross – the earth is a necessary evil. Hummingbirds are very small and exotic but the fascination wears off fast and you need to find a new hummingbird with a different beak and different colours, you need to find a smaller hummingbird which flaps its wings faster and has more brilliant colours until they dissolve into rainbow motes of shimmering movement. It’s an interesting polarity. One is the sensation of mobile immobility – the albatross and its gliding – the other the sensation of immobile mobility – the hummingbird and its hovering.
You could also say every idea you’ve ever had is just one big idea.
In writing this blog I’ve learned that blogs can do one thing very easily that books can’t – reshaping existing text. Reforging it, hammering it into new shapes – using new metaphors is always fun! I can dive into the centre of a paragraph and expand on a point I’ve thought more about, spiral it off into a new paragraph, or even an entirely new article! Every sentence is a potential book. Everything burns with limitless potential. To declare something finished is to admit defeat. I think the ultimate unit of text in a word processor is a sentence. This is true, in the sense that statements are only true insofar as they’re useful. With the word processor there is a potentially limitless space before and after each sentence into which anything you can conceive of could be inserted.
If this blog gets popular for one thing I’m going to start doing a different thing. Stasis is death. This is a shark’s blog! Writing is a shark’s job – keep moving or die. This expresses the ancient truth that Cold = Dead = Unmoving = Distant = Small and Hot = Live = Moving = Close = Big. This is why we say people are “larger than life” – they are infinite and perpetually overflowing, they redefine the parameters of life in exceeding them. If they are larger than life, how big is life? There is also the immortal truth that Trueness = Oldness = Fundamentality.
I had most of this blog written up but then I stopped because I had to go and do something which I’ve long since forgotten about. I can’t get into it in the same way I did – of course I can still get into it, just not in the same way. How can I get into it? I’m making the mistake of trying to imitate my writing from when I wrote most of it, and imitation is death. I have to make something new. I’m in a bad mood right now, I want to finish this and post it because I missed last week’s deadline. I’m going to keep writing blogs and learn more about them! This blog was a failure, but failure is good, as long as you’re failing in new ways. One thing I’ve noticed is that I came up with the hummingbird-albatross thing the second time I came to writing the article, and I’m very glad about that because it’s my favourite. The secret is to go off somewhere new and explore new ideas rather than forcing yourself to finish the old ones – if the old ones need work they’ll tell you, and their time will come. The last thing I’ve thought is this: Trueness = Oldness = Fundamentality = Secretness.
God is perfect. Bodies are perfect. Human bodies are perfect. I am perfect. I am not perfect. I hate blogs. I hate nothing. The world is corrupting me. I am pure. Food would only contaminate me. I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. The world is impure. I am the world. The world is pure. The world is impure. I am pure. I am impure. I am the world. In the shit. Endless shit. I am the world. I am pure. I am shit. In the bone. In the shit. I am the world. I am pure. I am bone. I am not. I negate myself. I am perfect. I negate myself. I am perfect. I am not. I am not. I negate myself. I hate myself. I hate rhyming. I hate rhymes. Rhymes are shit. I am the only person who can attain supremacy. I am perfect. I am a King. I am a God. I am perfect. I am not. I man. I am man. I man the. I am man. I man man. I am. I amn ot i am., I amf <i am I am. Ia.m I am. I am. I am. I am, I am. I am Iam. Iam, Ian. Iam. I a.a aifM ia Ma im ma ,.I Ia am. I am I am I am Ia m i ama aiam aiam ai ama aia I a mai ia am I am I am Ia m Iam i am I am I am I am I am. In the flesh. I am the flesh . I am hunger. I am the hunger,. I am. I am .I am Ia m a iam ai am ima im aim ai I am. I am the hunger I am thue hunger. I amnd the hunger. I am hunger. I am hnger, I hunger. I ‘ms at ear I amstarving I am starving I starve. I starve myself. I startve myself I am pure. I satareve my self. I starve myself to bveoecme pure. I am pure. I must be coems oure. I am pure. I am pure . I ampure I am pure I am pure. I must starve my self to become pure. I must become pure. I am pure. I am pure. I pamre apure a,. I am .pure. U are pure. I am pure. I am becomeing I caam I am becoming. I am tired. I can’t eat. Not any more. I can’t eat ant more. I have to stay pure. I canb’t erase anything I am anything. I am everything. Combat. I am combat. I am pure. I am pure. I am ecstasy. I have abandoned my limits. In doing so, I become shit. I have become shit. I am shit. I am pure. I am perfect. I am impenetrable. I am diamon. d I amd a iam bomn I am a diamonsdas I am not diamond. I am not diamond. I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. I rise above the world. I am shit I am shit I am hsit ia. I am shit. I am scared. I am pure. I am impeneterable I am impenetaralb I am impenetrable. I am pure. I am innocent. I a innocent. I am innocent. I am pure. I am not. I am not. I’m sorry. I’m pure. I’m too much. I’m too pure. I’m too good, and pure. I am pure. I can’t help it. I and I cab’ntr handle it. I tcan’t ait a doit I ca’t do it. I can’t do it. I can do anything. I am perfect. I am eveerything. I have become everything. I have imnfitlte I have infiltrated everything I am pure. I have contaminated everything. I am pure I am not pure. I am pure. I am not pure. I have beocemef I have cbe I have become bgod I have Become God. I mhave I must I have become gGGGGGGGod I have I am God. I am God. I amg Od. I ahve I am pure. I am pure. NOthing can touch me. Nothing can ever touch me. I am hungry. I am pure. I have become pure. I have been made pure by sme. I eamn I eam I am pure. I hungerr I am pure. I am hungry. I am enver i ma UI Ia I am n berver I ham I am a I am b I am never gunhrt I am nebe i am verne uim I am anever I a ai I am never hungry. I am pure. I am full. I am pleroma I am full. I am fullness and light. I am the Ilight I am the light. I am the lguiht I am the light I am the light I am the light I am the light I am the light I am the light I am the light I am the light I am the light I am the light I am the light. And the way. I am full I and M nI am full I am full I am impenetrable I am impenetrable. Penetrable. Penetranble. I am iprne t I am intermimbla. I am. I don’t I do I do I do I do I do diu od id do I do I do. I do. I do. I do. I am tired. I am in pain piain naionopdfnl pain I am in pain. I am in so much pain pain pain pain pain paina pinapaign ait won’t stop. I t wo I will not stop. I am tired. I am tired. Food would only contaminate me. I want neve tot I want to stop. I want never to stop. I want never food would only contaminate me. I am pure. I am complete. Light. I am the light. I am immortal. I am endless. I contain all. I contain nothing. I am nothing. I contain all. I cnao I am nothing. I am nothing.
I am nothing. I am pure.