I am so tired of waiting,
Aren’t you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two –
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.

Nothing here will appreciate in value. It will always be worth the same amount as the moment I made whole, a passing violent thought. From them I have made fables in the language I knew best at the time. For some god created monsters too. And you. And He wants everything to be spoken of.

I hope as we age that these images I’ve made make less and less sense. Like Latin. Relics. And pages which used to bear ‘here there be dragons’ cease to exist because they warn of dangers that lay dead by the most foul of means.

On that day I’ll draw niggas in space flown to where pigs can’t follow because they can’t breathe in the Ionosphere. It will get 3 likes because no one understands what I have done and that, that will be ok.

But in the meanwhile I will try to make manifest or visible or known that which we murmur or speak without venom lest we upset our hosts. Until I lack the constitution, I seek to start fires that never burn a single building in the hood.

This is an effort to rid my system of nostalgia. A syrup of ipecac that wrenches from my stomach concessions made for blonde-bearded suburban commandoes who once leg-dropped giants but also whispered nigger on sex tapes.

I hope that I’ve told the truth and it was humane. I hope it validates you because you heard your inner voice on the outside today and there isn’t a single cleverly worded nihilistic tweet that can take that from you.