no words for 18 months. 011211

Meaningless morsels under the spectre of imminent apocalypse. Or a hedonist outburst, followed by purging, followed by bingeing. Supported by the rampant bleating of digital assurance, the narcissistic demi-mirror of a collapsing era. The cacophony is made up of myriad layers, elements, it blends to a featureless roar. Numb to it. Death is upon us. Death is always upon us, as we look back to the good that are gone, the good that has passed, and look forward to the seething, teeming apathy before us.

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