I know it doesn’t wear well. What I’m doing. You are right — therapeutically speaking — the weight of it can be bad for me. But, I remind you, they are conscious actions, and come in a set. Your bullshit liberal semantics will not work here. I will not be phased. Until I see you.
Today we work across so many spaces. Popping up here and beaming over there. An electronic flux on this or a creative time for that. You do not take responsibility for your actions because we are hologram. Polymathematical.
You went to the party at Copan, while I waited over an hour for you outside the nearby metro. To take you to the occupation. That is your profile. You set it over time.
And a rose splashes blood as it thuds to the ground. Umberto Eco is dead. Oedipus and Electra awakened, but confused by whose turn it is this time.