076

ZEMANTASTIC is fun, but I need something more. The FACT that nothing is worth staking your reputation on because some creep will hear your words in reverse and bury you alive, or even WORSE bury you dead. I'm afraid to have intentions and/or expectations about everything, anything, nothing at all. Who is this ME standing at the center of this hurricane of selves? He's merely the remaining sum of debris drossed from infinite overlapping realities. Like that fkng ghost of an iceberg in plastics between lands (microbial feces from the machine). Can nature be erased by nurture? Like culture scraping away at an individual soul, chipping away at the natural stone form to resemble a common collective archetype. Like a shape tumbling at high speed across pavement, loosing mass at every touch, becoming only what the road couldn't stomach, a fleck of nothing in the breeze. Tumbleweed in a void of soul. A black hole where the self implodes.