raise your hand if you're artistically caged

"the *exact sum*" ⚖️😇⛓️‍💥🆓🥰

lukas morrison

bstrdsofjung

🪞🤺

reject community, summon the swarm

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She is real, He is real, but Katie is not. do you see what I'm building? you might have to tilt your head and squint.

the fun part is the play within a play. it's allowing anyone willing to suspend belief a conspiracy OF MY CHOOSING to indulge in--basically that She is real, that I stole Her story, wrote it down, and gave it to the world. and now She is very angry with me, even angrier than She is with Him.

the answer to the current draft problem might be a sustained ambiguity re: who wrote what. and by building fiction around that concept, aren't I reclaiming the lingering questions about my own authorship? I am. I have to write what hurts.

here I will be Her

I'm going to start a feud

want to be more mischievous. tricksy.

I am getting closer!! I have to be.

I'll be nice now

are you REALLY making enough money to justify having to act like an enormous dweeb everywhere, all the time

exploding you with my mind

B itter A bject B room A rson Y earning A lchemy G reenery A berration

you will get old too.

being a consumer of art without making your own must be a mortifying way to live

every online review is a tell. people who got turned on by the book call it pornography. people who were emotionally touched say it romanticizes too much. those who got a good glimpse of the bad man's psychology call it a handbook for criminals. everything they have to say is a projection.

readers are consumers

nothing I'm more grateful for than my ambition and need for attention being so meager compared to my talent. in my next life I'll be like the women I came from: composing galaxies in their diaries, feeling no drive to share. I won't even have the dickinson chip on my shoulder. I'll be meek, centered

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the contempt I have for the culture is a vibrating wire. it slices thru flesh.

the past five years rotted your soul while mine turned to diamond

what a shame the audience has made itself into such an untrustworthy hag

well, I know a LOT more now

my rowdy enlightenment

my integrity shines through every shrouded move I make. if I weren't pure of heart, why would I hide the way I do?

I don't know how to exist without a dog. the stretch between death and puppy is agony, even when it lasts but ten days. I go sick without one in my care. visibly, I wither. my hair falls out, my skin goes sallow.

I need a dog tall enough to knock against my thigh when I call her into a heel. ideally she'd hit my hip. I need to be able to touch to her tail idly as we walk, when I'm lost in thoughts of the draft.

hitch your tiger to your chariot

the boomer man in my head is so powerful right now. he's out of the basement and into the stereo. he's playing his favorite band, the one all women hate for good reason.

"baby grands" were the books people talked about but didn't buy, ones with four-figure debut week sales and nyer mentions.

the people who feel entitled to literary prominence despite never having written a book anyone wants to read

there is an upper echelon of story. am I conversing with someone else up there, or merely myself?

cannot accept that things truly are as boring as they seem