Refracted Attraction: Issue Is Its Own Escape

Eliphas Levi uses the phrase “infallible reason” in regards to fellow travelers, cautioning them of the possibility of going mad as a result of the danger in toying with the operations of occult science. As if science, of the occult inclination or accepted variety are not madness in of themselves on some level. Delusion is key to the willing of and illusion, until it becomes an attainable reality, is it not?

He explains his position further a few paragraphs later. Expressing that, “human passions produce blindly the opposites of their desire, when they act without direction. Excessive love arouses antipathy; blind hate counteracts and scourges itself; vanity leads to the abasement and the most cruel humiliations…”

Like myself at the beginning of the last year, 2025, with the will being refracted towards and external entity; and basing it in some sense on the obsessive madness detailed in Lolita, sonically synthesized to the album Eat Me, Drink Me; all the while attempting to evade its dreary, closing confirmation for a self-fulfilling prophecy. Shane warned. D’Annunzio preached. But I have little regret. “My pain is not ashamed to repeat itself,” only the issues which coagulated it so. It’s less cruel humiliation as Levi described, the verbiage I would use that of what Quentin Tarantino delegated in a podcast interview conducted by Brett Easton Ellis; when recollecting his a certain period of his life wherein it was himself and a friend existing and feeding off of one another’s ‘pathetic-ness’. 

Like Jesse Pinkman and Jane in Breaking Bad, or better shown with Jimmy McGill/ Saul Goodman and Kim Wexler in its sister series Better Call Saul; together it’s ecstatic, cute, invigorating— but really as both shows go to present, it’s really two anchors weighing one another down. “It’s better to push something when it’s slipping, than risk being dragged down.”

Surviving

What is thriving?

Constantly conniving.

Strange sentry,

Charged with breaking in and entering

“What’s in a name?”

Freeze frame, lock and wait-

Get high with excessive haste;

Hate the waste,

Issue is it’s own escape.

Rogue Delay

 

Depressive expression

Pervasive correlation 

Rogue allegation 

Strained delay

Familiar foreign fugue

Gray gaiety

Translucent dissociation

Unimaginable mind migration 

Pointless Prescription

Frail validation, Atlas armor —

Enduring in spite of futility,

Failure and elation:

Time does not permit,

Poetic reflexes-

pointlessly prescribing;

Philosophical plots are merely preparing,

For an imaginary eternity flying 

Malignant Indifference

Debased restraint

Contradictory taint

Wounded, winded

Actively attached

Draining phrase;

Malignant, indifferent

Instituted and intentional

Invigorating incarceration 

Envy: Invigorating Or Extreme Error? Neurotic Nihilism IV.4.1

Dictionaries from Merriam-Webster to the Oxford English commonly give the description of Envy to be one with malicious, negative intent. Similar to Ayn Rand and George Orwell in their decrying of the impulse but only in definition. Formally the combined definition of the emotional state would be an individual who is aware of an advantage enjoyed and possessed by an external entity which they desire but do not possess, and have issue in seeing how to go about attaining what is desired. 

“…as soon as a powerful foreigner invades a country all the weaker powers give him their support, moved by envy of the power which has so far dominated them”

—Niccoló Machiavelli, The Prince

Use of the word Envy in this is notable. Envy for the power dominating; as Machiavelli explains in the text, of those beings in the society being invaded who live in fear of it. Motivated by envy for said power in the home nation, upon presentation with the option to flip the script for a taste of the flavor. “Every woman loves a Fascist,” so to say. With that however, such is still an ill willed position— Sonderkommandos died as well even if among the last. 

“What happens is that men willingly change their ruler, expecting to fare better. This expectation induces them to take up arms against him; but they only deceive themselves, and they learn from experience that they have made matters worse. This follows another common and natural necessity: a prince is always compelled to injure those who have made him the new ruler; subjecting them to the troops and imposing endless other hardships which his new conquest entails. As a result you are opposed by all those you have injured in occupying the principality, and you cannot keep the friendship of those who have put you there; you cannot satisfy them in the way they had taken for granted, yet you cannot use strong medicine on them, as you are in their debt.”

Niccoló noted prior. The grass is always greener and who appears to be savior is fraud. Like the Sith rule of two: in the envious lust to attain power beyond most understanding, it is its own pitfall. Master gets slain by apprentice. Rinse and repeat. Going with the Oxford Dictionary delegation of the word, describing, “a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone’s possessions, qualities, or luck.”

Characterizing the pitfalls of pure, excessive Envy without the intent of turning it into ambition dates back to Greek legend. Poetically personifying Envy as an Entity in his Metamorphoses, Plubius Ovidius Naso detailed her use; sought out by Minerva to instill her ill upon Aglauros of Athens over her sister, Herse, having caught the eye of Mercury; who wished to produce an offspring with her. 

“…and there inside she saw Envy, consuming the flesh of vipers,

The food for her natural venom…

[…]

That face is constantly pallid; her body is totally shrivelled; her eyes are both at squint while her teeth are decayed

  and discolored;

her nipples are green with gall and the poison drips from

  her tongue. 

She never smiles except when excited by watching pain,

nor can she sleep, there are so many torments to keep her

  awake;

wasting away; she is gnawed herself, as she gnaws at

  her victims,

by torture that’s self-inflicted…”

Filled by this spirit with its mental malaise, Aglauros attempted to prevent Hermes entrance with the previously agreed upon bargain for the betrothal of her sister, she is seized by her own sluggish inertia:

“And like the malignant spread of a sadly incurable

    cancer,

creeping on to affect other perfectly healthy organs, little by little the deadly chill crept into Aglauros’ breast, and finally blocked the vital paths of her

  breathing

[…]

She simply sat there, a lifeless statue; the stone was not even white, but stained by her own black envy.”

Envy, ideally, invites ambition, then proceeds to do away with that envy. Envy presupposes ambition, but only so far as to attain it; alone and in excess it’s a poison, as with anything. Alone and unending Envy is merely vicarious, rather than ambitious. Leech, not primrose peach. 

Commonly Envy is used in conjunction and synonymously with Jealousy. Envy goes with Jealousy synonymously but not vice versa. Difference being that jealousy regards desire already within ones grasps— greed with envy and a bit of a flimsy ego; while envy is a a longing for the attainment of desired ambition in regards to such a possession. Like John Flory in Burmese Days for a late life he never lead; or Patrick Bateman’s psychotic state in longing to fit in. 

The failure in such Envy is an attempt at assimilation; when the motivation it could have towards ambition would probably be better put to adaptation. Though, as the example of both Flory and Bateman show, such is Neurotic in its own right regardless of it an envy for assimilation or adaptation. 

Avatar: Misanthropic Muse?

 

Recently released was the third installment in James Cameron’s Avatar movies; and in seeing the new Fire & Ash film I left the theatre, like after the second movie, with an imbued sense of unbridled misanthropy. Leading to the pondering, is that truly the point? 

Ramping up Agent Smith’s prescription of humanity as a virus in The Matrix, the Avatar franchise depicts the species as exactly so, spreading to other worlds even. In this sense it’s akin to the Nina Paley documentary film Thank You For Not Breeding, which uses the analogy of humanity being akin to a cancer spreading uncontrollably and maliciously. 

Is humanity necessarily a virus, or could such be symptomatic to only its habits? With that, is it not a virus?

While the Na’vi natives of Pandora are shown to have many similarities to human tendencies— namely in regards to tribalism, such are purely logical in the face of the attempting onslaughts. Rather than extraterrestrial invaders coming down to Earth, the ‘sky people’ coming from Gaea are the abhorrent aliens. 

By the closing scene of the third installment, Pandora is made out to be clearly more than meets the eye, as prior films already heavily implicated. Zooming out for a final short, shows the planet inhabited but within the spiritual realm the population of Pandora all interconnects with.

Pandora gets its name from Greek legend. As the mythology claims, the first woman on Earth, Pandora, is given a box as a (poison pill) gift from the gods, and instructed not to open it. Like Eve in Eden however, curiosity got to the cat as was always planned; from the box all pestilence and suffering and all that can be claimed as ills to the human condition sprung. Pinning the punishment onto Pandora, as explanation for the negative in the Garden of Earthly Delights, simply for married in lineage to Prometheus, who both molded mankind and stole fire from the gods to illuminate his clay. 

Na’vi have a spiritual superior strength while man has mechanistic ‘might’. In that Pandora being as it is christened, is heavy in irony. Opening Pandora’s box isn’t humanity’s quarrel; it’s breaking in. Like Plato’s cave allegory, but the inhabitants of the cave are the enlightened ones; mixed with the Jungian invigoration of the primitive perceptions… the Na’vi are written to reflect this in blatant juxtaposition to the sky people. 

Living in conjunction with the world they inhabit. Intrinsically connected to it in a literal, metaphysical way. Even though intelligent and conscious of the fact as humans are on their home world, the Na’vi do not counterintuitively attempt to refute their link to the broader ecology. Portraying invading humans as largely sociopathic, save a select few. Mechanistically, snobbishly, and militarily mistaking the “savagery” of the native population for stupidity. Savage is subjective; throughout the course of climaxes, mankind is repeatedly reminded to be incredibly brutal in its breaking into the world. Not dissimilar to real world situations like American forces in the jungles of Vietnam fighting against speaking trees; or British soldiers unfamiliar to the Virginian terrain. 

Art imitates life; earth isn’t totally in shambles from pulsating tumors; and being the lie that attempts truth, the creation of an entirely new world being ravaged in interstellar rape, makes an acceptable allegory for box office hits. Differing in depiction from other blockbusters like the Independence Day movies, it’s a polar opposite picture. It’s not aliens invading, it’s aliens being invaded.

Phoebus Shows

21 lines

21 Guns

that’s two lines—

This is Four;

Ava Adore

Woe unto the whore

86 is a bitch;

“When the mind

 breaks the spirit

 of your soul”

Baneful glow;

Phoebus shows

Brutalist beauty:

Fuck-

Grotesque cunt,

Prey starts to hunt;

runt gets stuck

Glamour in the rut;

Another notch scratched on the belt

Set in stone with nothing to go

Awry Adventure

 

 At exactly a quarter past 3pm yesterday (January 7, 2025) a call came through to me, leading to an awry ran and interesting, to say the least, venture. On the phone calling, my friends Jorgio & Harley with their dog Monkey; who had been hired as help for an aging man’s ranch as extra hands about an hour away from my place of work where we first met around a year ago this time. This was however an unpleasant situation wherein the older gentleman hiring them was essentially spinning false hopes, exploitation of some homeless people more or less. 

 From that I contacted a person named Victor, as he unlike myself is with vehicular transportation. My Subaru Outback unfortunately kicked the bucket about a month and a half prior (after 13 years, for the most part on the original battery no less) which created a small conundrum in the escape attempt later…

 Driving 40 minutes solely to get me in the debacle, a quick $26 worth of gas and officially embarking off to the soundtrack of Boston’s 1976 self-titled album. 

 Looking like a scene from Seattle the sky was steadily letting itself down onto the town below, we eventually arrived to the dirt road of damn-near-damnation. 

 Driving in a Kia, little more need be highlighted how terribly those cars are in regards to being sub-par in all-terrain performance. We made it all but about 75% of the way to the ranch before having to stop so as to not bottom out the automobile. Getting out after pulling to the side, I walked the remainder of the 15 minutes to the ranch gate, finding Harley & Monkey. One would think of it simple from there. One would be of course, wrong, or there’d be less interesting of a story to note down. 

 Their stay at the ranch culminated in an attempt at normal diplomacy as one would when moving from a property not theirs, Jorgio attempted sophisticated interaction with the man. Such got a .22 drawn on him. Claiming that Harley had stolen a spoon and plate, somehow… 

 From there it was get the fuck out of dodge. After an hour and a half of back and forth in the rain trying to get one of the dogs back onto the ranch and the Wonder Twins (plus Monkey) finding their way in the pitch black to the car. Arriving back to a concerned Victor sometime closer to 7:14 at night it had luckily stopped raining. Had it continued the dirt road likely would have flooded and stranded us all. Not being the case however we were off. 

 Culminating finally in a quartet performance of us all singing along to Queen’s We Are The Champions after stopping by a dispensary to pick up a few celebratory joints. From there Victor and I dropped the three off at a Bashas they have some niches around; then went across the street to the gas station I work at for a few free drinks (courtesy of my employment), cleaning stuff for his back seat, and a cookie. 

 Getting back home from there to sit back down at the desk where it all began some 6 hours before. Situating some creepily cute antique dolls Jorgio handed off for me to hold; together they’re worth some $3000 total. A cool find from a month ago. There to write this tale from the day. 

Tied Truths

Grasping,

Gasping;

Clogged tongue,

Tied truths:

Opposing instinct—

tried, untrue. 

Vain vein-

Vae Victis-

Vague tempest-

Elated automation,

Medicated dedication,

Alleviated interception:

Memory is more a digression 

Excessive ecstasy to depreciating delicacy

Exclusive— 

What the fuck is being ‘free’?

Noting Nothing

*aside before this: though it’s ‘NN’ abbreviation ability the name it is not part of the Neurotic Nihilism series. It’s just notes in the midst of nothing. Stream of consciousness. Like Time Eats. Not a Neurotic Nihilism entry. 

The clock I put on the wall reads its hands at about 7 minutes until 3pm. I’m at work, a slow day in contrast to last Thursday. Not much aside that and a podcast in my ear.

A customer walks in. He has me check his lottery ticket. Winning $3 he chose to purchase another three tickets, promising like many a day to reward me handsomely, should they ‘win big.’ I doubt such ever would happen— after all I only have about another 6 weeks here; and I have never seen a person win higher than $500. What I see is more spent in wishful attempts than in successful return. I have a theory that lottery winners, in the larger numbers, tend to be preplanned and much of the money spent on the lottery is more akin to a fundraiser which goes until the fever reaches a breaking point; as seen with the madness I experienced last week. Multiple shifts of almost endless faces buying their share in the slight possibility of having the government breathing down their neck for taxes till they die…

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It’s true what Patti Smith says in M-Train, that, “it’s not so easy writing about nothing.”

Being at work, writing about something is more fit for a night shift. During the day, less time is afforded. Before coming in I was reading a bit of Dita Von Teese’s book Your Beauty Mark; admittedly a bit absent-mindedly in the process thinking of it’s concepts; in association with an anonymous quote, commonly and falsely attributed to Nietzsche, about the difference in killing a moth and butterfly being viewed in differing moral lenses based on mere aesthetic appearance.

Moths being a major proponent in proving adaptable traits in evolution, history seems to offer a differing regard. Not too dissimilar in that the species are quite similar in origin and outlined appearance, the morality is blurry. Subjective. Moths are goth and butterflies are hippies. 

Goth came from the punk movement largely, which was in many ways a direct counter to the hippie ideals. Both however in their heights were looked upon with distaste by the respective (and typically same) establishment(s) around.

Aesthetics backed by ideas they ignite via their pathos and ethos grabbing propaganda clash. 

Vibrant, a butterfly seems lively in fields of flowers on a sunny day. A moth is of the night, hovering around flame and street lights; phantasmal, some genomes even have patterns likening to human skulls on their bodies… Goths sacked Rome and byproducts of the hippie movement murdered Sharon Tate in meth-addled manifestation. 

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In my ear Bill Maher and Jimmy Kimmel argue whether or not movies become reality. All things considered, I agree with Bill more. Apocalyptic is fetishistic, but it’s rather realistic if the way we go is by our own hand. Or like the cosmos killing the dinosaurs. Self fulfilling prophecy is true but in gradual decline. Interesting ideation on an instance unlikely end personal witness to in spite of inevitability. 

In a sense Bill’s whole club random podcast is mundane extremes, in a sense. 

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Thinking, at first it seems ironic for those adhering to the Christian faith to get tattoos of even crosses on their persona. On consideration though, why would that be so queer? Going in terms of the idea of ‘slave morality’ the faith came from the widespread adoption of those typically in servitude. Throughout time the marking of bound constituents in some form or another has been enacted so signify that slave status. In the rejection of all other entities before and in service to the Abrahamic Lord, it’s a marker without a mark. Given Adam and Eve began as nude until they got knowledge of the fact and everything apparently went to shit because a piece of fruit got eaten, and in Revelation with the imbued Mark of the Beast by the evil other entity (who was historically a substitute for a disliked emperor, to further add differentiators which also lends a bit more to the idea building, it seems). In a sense it’s akin to the proletariat against bourgeoisie in communist history and theory… Prohibition being Levitical law however if I remember reading correctly, according to Christian doctrines such as Catholicism say such got superseded with the New Testament and Jesus doing away with the old covenant… the implication being said rule is Jewish in the Abrahamic family tree, not Christian. 

Seemingly, it makes a bit of sense they would get the cross tattooed, among other non-religious iconography and images. And that it’s a 2,000 year old dogma, as well as an almost innate inclination for humans to veer towards bodily glamour of varying degrees such happens. 

Not being Christian, or ever having been, I’m altogether unsure. Their theology is their own mess to make up as they please. 

I like the two cross of Lorraine tattoos I have though. As a random aside with all that. 

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nothing. 

nothing. 

or something, it’s nothing. 

***                                ***                              ***

I guess I’ll get coffee. Well, when these people leave. This location doesn’t have any flavored syrups so I substitute: a few shots of hazelnut creamer, coffee, then some French vanilla creamer and mixing till it looks like a milkshake. Boom. Good coffee. 

Rarely, I have learned, is there ever a truly bad coffee. Only bad coffee makers. 

Psycho-Neurotic || Neurotic Nihilism IV.4

Brett Easton Ellis’ famed book turned movie starring Christian Bale, American Psycho; begins its descent into delusion with the imagery of foreboding red inscriptions quoting what Dante in his Inferno claimed to be on the gates of Hell greeting those who enter: “ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE.” Blood red, as the text details. 

According to Ellis, his writing portrays a psychotic episode in textual representation. Dialogues as long as Ayn Rand’s monologues about anything, everything down to the minute smallest detail. Eyes viewing with obsessive compulsion, more than mere perfectionism; endless knowledge of memorized factoids about average apparel (at least, for Patrick Bateman’s class); and grandiosity all the while in a state of free-fall. Seemingly with no ground to finally crash down onto. Never is it told in the course of the nearly 400 pages of descent if the character portrayed is psychotic by nature or developed disorder…. Psycho being in the title, the implication is less of a mere fantasy from an unreliable narrator like Hubert Humphrey in Nabokov’s infamous Lolita, more an actual psychopath’s inner monologue after reaching past the point of depersonalization. 

Whether the presented perspective in the book is merely embellished from insane insight or delusional delight, is up to interpretation. 

Brett Easton Ellis has stated in interviews that Bateman is quite largely based on his own mental fugue of experience in the 1980s as a closeted, repressed homosexual. Readers and viewers of American Psycho might pause with that remark, given in both film and novel the character Luis makes explicit advances on Patrick; one must also consider the time, place and taste. 

Sexuality is a part of the human animal, for better or worse. A procreative prerogative paired with intelligent imagination. Similarly, that Homo Sapiens have animalistic impulses—harsher hobbies— often not disconnected to sexuality is true. Domesticated dogs are often neutered for a reason— it’s called ‘fixed’ quite ironically. Like sexuality barbaric, brutal behaviors are also loaded into the genetic gun. Like a dog, even neutered, humans get frustrated (to say the least) in said regard. 

Definitionally, the word psycho means, “a mentally sick or neurotic person.” Psychotic and Neurotic differ in detail; though are slight synonyms. Psychotic, coming out of psycho,  lending then to the term ‘psychosis’ which is defined as, “a major mental disorder characterized by a disintegration of personality.” In relation to Neurosis, such is, “less serious than a psychosis, marked by severe anxiety, depression and the like, without any apparent physical origin.” Then lending to Psychoneurosis, being a more direct verbiage for the idea of a neurotic individual (New Webster’s Medical Dictionary, 1981).

A state of psychosis implies neurosis whereas neuroticism in of itself is not psychotic. Psychoneurotic goes with neurosis, meaning a psychotic individual is psychoneurotic; however psychoneurosis on its own is not an implicit signal for psychosis; only neurosis. 

A better illustration to this, in less graphic though nearly melancholic lense: the 1980s dark fantasy Nietzschean film The Never Ending Story. Also based on a book, the movie makes a montage of the collapse of imagination— life in a sense for the human animal as we consciously live— into a literal gaping void of Nothing. Only is it resurrected by the reader of the story, who has to have the power of a truly wondrous, childlike, naïve imagination. 

Without imagination a person is, like Patrick Bateman, an automation. Alive, but a person without a person. Going through the motions of harsher hobbies, his being external rather than purely personal. Bateman exists in a banal branch of the American Upper Class in New York. Working despite not having to, the life of upper echelon business surrounds him. While he’s shown to not be the sole solipsist in a state of decay— all around his colleagues are consuming copious amounts of cocaine, fretting over suits and sluts, competing over better business cards, etcetera— it directly gives the perspective of his own person, without a person. Psychotic, past the point of neurotic depersonalization. The title of the book cannot be clearer in connotation for the contents of its pages: an American Psycho. 

Chicken or the egg: what came first, the economic situation or mental illness?

To defer to Mark Fisher, hauntological philosopher of lost futures and acid communism; in his K-Punk writings speaking in various essays in regards to activities seen as degenerate, the difference in deviancy is quite little regardless of class position. What closes up the gap, according to Fisher, can be summed up as an extreme boredom of the banal bullshit; to the point of neurosis, leading to psychosis. 

Foregoing any conclusion to Patrick’s confession, it amounts to a completely void story. Not ending in arrest or death, simply five capitalized words stating: “THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.”

Time Eats

Blue light beaming digits on the screen tell me it’s 8:42pm on December 31, 2025. Unsurprisingly I’m in a room and it’s just me, myself and I. A TV plays in the living room; outside fireworks crackle like incoherent turrets— people celebrating the year coming to a close. 

A year is an interesting idea. That it starts in winter I find odd— given the idea is a ‘new’ year it should be akin to rebirth; or the season of spring. However, given the tilting of the axis the seasons across hemispheres are in constant loop. In a sense maybe one of the spring or autumn (depending on the geographical placement from the equator) would suit better placeholders. 

It’s a rather fruitless attempt at debate, time being relative; a year on Earth is quite a few elsewhere in the solar system. Time only matters and means so much as to what our short lifespans wind up perceiving. A new year is merely a spherical hunk making a loop around a giant ball of gas. To me it seems a bit weird, though in the same manner it must be queer to a Jehovah’s Witness the celebration of that or my own affinity to my date of birth. This next loop around it marks the 20th for me. 

Twenty— 

Has it been plenty?

Running,

out of one thing-

out of money-

into degeneracy

Do I need Misery or

do mysterious entities need me?

Hermit,

Ambiguous spree

Dusk to dust

far from a skeletal husk

Lolita and butterflies by dying flames

What if I stayed?

Hash, fash, perfume splash

Mad last gasp

Head up just as fast

Present is future past

Yet another to best

Time eats without teeth

20 lines for 20 years, come March that is. But I’ll count it. Technically, I would have been ‘alive’ in the womb 20 years ago tonight. I say technically as unless I had higher brain functioning that would make it so I can be writing this now, which it is possible of being in the time of that trimester then such tends to develop, I would consider myself alive in more ways akin to a symbiote in Spider Man. 

I’ve had this coffee I’m sipping on since about midnight last night, only have a bit less than half drank— I fell asleep shortly after walking out to get it; with it I also got two packets of Planters salted peanuts. Of the two one remains in ever so slightly decreasing quantity. A siren briefly starts then quiets as quickly, a fire vehicle from the sound of it. So begins the semi-annual explosive-related incident surge which happens this time, and July with Independence Day’s celebratory tradition. 

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Outside, though dark, it’s nicely overcast with slight sprinkling of rainfall— the air feels nice, but heavy. Ozone permeates every inhale through the nasal cavity. 

The plastic piece goes between my lips, I breathe in with my mouth like to sip from a straw and electric myst enters my entity. Holding a second, upon exhaling there’s minimal fog. Adrenaline shortly coursing through and nicotine giving its focusing fumes. I yawn. Not terribly tired even though the lids of my eyes weigh slightly. Intake—hold—elate. Coffee doing its use. Putting my headphones on, covering only one ear I press play on Meine Musik. Marilyn Manson’s Keep My Head Together begins instantly— I have the We Are Chaos CD but I want LOUD and variety; and to feel what I hear, so headphones suffice until the morning when I’m completely alone. The song is good. I wrote much on it in notebooks— I get it now though. I think, but probably not— I can interpret though… Bleeding from and into the vibrationally industrial 3Teeth’s song Atrophy. 

I could, well, more accurately should be reading, or maybe working my notes on Plato’s Phaedo into some sort of better essay; but writing this suffices. An exercise I don’t do as much as earlier in the year. From 3Teeth to Depeche Mode, the live version of Stripped from their 101 album. I remember listening to this at full volume in the car while driving amidst a raging storm in the Colorado mountains. With the wrong split second I very well could have died, impossible to see anything but black and flashes of lightning too quick and pale to see with beyond the bumper ahead of me, red tail lights lights guiding as my map had long since lost signal… Inevitably ascending the mountain to spend a nice rest of that night in the park by Columbine High School…

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The phone tells me it is now 9:48pm. Death Effector Domains, an interesting number begins in my ear. Groovy tune, not much more than a nice vibe. I feel it would lead really well into High Pressure Dave by HEALTH, quickly putting it as the next track right in time. My bias confirmed. 

Getting distracted by my phone, I threw it and my headphones to the side. For now I’ll have more peanuts, coffee and delve further into the pages of Patti Smith’s book M-Train; which is the whole motivator for this stream of conscious writing. 

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Read a bit more, got lost on my phone a bit more. Now it’s 11:34, turn it upside down and it spells hell. Hell… there’s an essay on that in a book I have playing interesting word games with regards to Hell. When I get up in the morning I’ll reread it. For now, I go to take a few pictures…

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