"like a shotgun blast.." (excerpted from DREAMFILM #1)

I gathered my collective characters amongst a series of epileptic fits in which a trip-like trance washed over my eyes encompassing the jaded nature and asphyxiating a new lifeform out of it— upon various attempts at explaining or justifying these experiences to others I felt, well— alienated seems too fucking easy— It was as if my life had been stretched across a series of fine film loops, one for each year— colliding and twisting, falling into new outs as I withered amongst the ruins— writhing with determination to force the hand of chance— the slick sounds of surrender corrupting the urge to want— the subliminal need for a satisfactory answer in which you fall back on the same excuse I have heard since— cutting in with a remarkable force— words of instinct carried on sick lines of faded blue vein connections— contrasted by a series of remorseful movements— the aim is to disorient the absolute knowledge and prove subjectivity the only necessity in terms of— creating a sense of belonging— recognize that beneath bloodline apathy lay a hope that carries our tired bodies forward— carved in white lines of audible film— the words have become a radiant shift between deradicalization protocol and distraction playing hand in hand to create a juxtaposition so disgusting one can’t help themselves from dreaming of it— what have I missed if you are right?— Perhaps an ancient apathy that whittles the nerves down to a dull hum— yes but how do you intend on— with force, no other options— I present these series of dreamfilms as a product no doubt of a molecular lack— can’t help but smile as she forces back each memoryline which has found it’s way into the consciousness of yet another— it is not a matter of whether the perspective has been skewed— that is a given— rather, it is more worrisome that we cannot be satisfied by subjectivity as an answer— It seems natural— to need something to be so definite— considered ungrateful— reel back and smile— bare teeth grin through glistening red lips— I never told you exactly why because— it’d be too fucking easy— a handing off of property, nothing more?— what a waste of interaction— dig for it and be thankful I led you astray for however many blissful minutes you can maintain this thoughtline for— provided a means of comfort in hallucinatory aspects of something we all seemed to just— fall out of line with..?— as if what is entirely natural must be assimilated into a manmade state of consistent awareness that drives us mad— through the efforts of those we refuse to acknowledge in fear— quiet.. they’re listening..— as if it were some great rebellion— an uprising in which the docile become increasingly sadistic at first vicariously but then— upfront and fucking personal— as real as one can make it— the space between your eyes and my hands— all the universes we have sculpted in these fragments of space that we are allotted— in amphetamine glow— day turns to night outside of view only giving notice by way of birds chirping in blue June sunrise— my dearest few darlings in spite— oh, how I only wish I could face the harmless recollections— by all means an industrial hellscape in which we are measly articles of matter— desperately shifting through various states of unrest and forced catatonia— opiate calm rushes beneath warm flesh surface— kept in perpetual reminiscent dust— glowing madly in dense sparks— we have synthesized a series of new beginnings— the hollow sound of a female voice reverberating off cold concrete walls— “and this is where we..”— nurse heels clicking— fading wet sounds of operating machine— so I’ll say..— there is little reserve for such emotions in times like these— must remain strictly sterile and whole for the sake of— commanding a force in which— radio static splits the sky like a shotgun blast directly to the chest— it appeared like most voices did— incoherent at first only to be deciphered by sheer force of will afterwards— painfully conscious conceptualization that heard what it wished to hear at that exact moment in time— a perfection of the compulsive verbalized— the case draws to a close and we are but actors on an— and did you hear of the fire set in the— what of the filmdust falling underneath skies of ambient greys— will be seen to by a series of— contempt in the very nature— permutate the consistent time-vessels by way of cut, shift and tangle— manipulate the very structure of reality film in which you are but an innocent bystander— content in your place of awareness to the point of— sickening—