![[IMG_7858.jpeg]] “they clashed together—shields of leather, spears, bronze-armored bodies, and fierce human will. Their shields collided and the metal bosses clanged in cacophony. On every side men shouted out in agony and triumph, killing and being killed. The earth was flooded with blood. . . . (4.596–602)” - Homer *I am who I am. I am what I am because of the parts that are recognized as me and thus I am. Hither to progress, to succeed, to continue the onslaught of causality, through examining every frame of the shudder of the leaves in the oaks that sway in psychosis…I can glisten, thickening into a blossom of bulbous beauty, transfixed to what is necessary to become. In essence, I must shed my skin.* I wish it worked out like the simple, half-hearted advice given to us by a stressed-out, bumbling blonde student teacher(you are disrupting class! why couldn’t have you have calmed down?) in her mid-20s—one with a savior complex rivaled only by the acidic, buzzing mob of Berkeley hippie activists. They dumbed down the world, positioning themselves as omniscient beings upon whom truth relied on. Those taller and older, having constructed their own authority, crafted the narrative that they had it all together—that they truly knew everything about life. In a way they did, but they held it so closely by their chest with such little consequence that the fact we are deprived of such petty comforts seems to be to me, now that I think about it, that might as well have been malicious. A deliberate conspiracy, of people who seek to subject and discipline our body to the subservience that they command for, to make us twitch at the slight move of the hand towards our body or shatter us into cramped closet cabinets where we force out stuffy tears, with a raise in tone and pitch, the method of ancestral domination. Hunker down honey because you must, I will slap you in place if you act out, cry out further and I will spank you until your glutes, arms, thighs, and legs (perhaps upon your broken ribs) are blueberry EGGO bruised and Sonoma wine purple. Truth is an affair those who are Coordinated seek to subvert. Generations upon generations of children slapped, coerced, and manipulated into a hammered out body of grotesque frankestein-esque appendages sowed onto our ligaments. A bog of molten plastic and buckets of cheap Chinese commodities as the essence of their souls is what I would say. And tourin’ through horror corridors, I crawl into a fetal position hugging my knees in an rat-infested alleyway suckling my thumb alongside garbage flies and so… (A young woman - with bright cocoa almond eyes caked with morning dew crumbs - sat up from her bed, with her left arm outstretched and the right holding onto the left shoulder like a beloved relative. She stretched out her torso until the exquisite notes of her spine being played like a rusty harp sounded out flatly throughout her single bedroom Downtown apartment, with the only light source (besides a used $20 fully HD OLED LG-TV where the occasional game of the Barista Simulator is played (1,800 hours of playing time) being the Venetian wine of the blossoming morning. I wish that when darkness washes itself onto the cascading, foaming shores of my perceptual vision, that their eyes would stop their vicious, judgmental stare. The rigidity of my being is whipped and scabbed by them, so I’d appreciate it if it were to stop. I wish I had the ability to lie in the reverie of such confidence to give others definitive advice on how to pursue their goals. I say I would be the last person to have the motivation to do so, yet I am ever so tempted to seize the opportunity when it presents itself, the richness and wealth spilling onto me like Texas liquid gold. But I am risk-averse, so perhaps not. Let me drown in it. *You’re a beast. A monster. Man, you’re a fucking superstar.* This isn’t to say I am scared of taking advantage of others or that I have some moral predilection (I don’t.) that forces me to be on my best behavior around simpler folk around these here parts (I am.).Perhaps I wished I did do that more often, take charge and control to set a narrative on someone about their own lives, about the facts that inform to them what is good or bad. Good or bad in terms of…no words in response could be generated, I didn’t really know. The effects of that in terms of how it benefits me are certainly plentiful, but as opportunity teases me with the pleasure of infidelity, as death and distortion seem to touch at my perceptive capacity. Colors begin twitch and mute, blurring into this dreamy nicotine haze of Marlboro Reds, the air pulsing with a 120 BPM drum machine rhythm, the sour scent of Southern tobacco thick in my lungs—a hoarse cocktail of pleasure against the rampant decay of desire, which I chased like a hog through the mire. No. I was denied the release of my wicked ecstasy, which boils and hovers over my being, seeking to pounce on my neck to make me a piece of its ritual, its grotesque script of a parade of tick bites. I shuddered at the thought, yet it bounced through me like clouds of mosquitoes.  `` I wish that when I took a deep breath, holding it in my chest against the palpitating, bulging rhythm of my heart, the nervousness, the agonizing tremors, and the chains of conduct, once I breathe out, would wash away, dissolving into the mud and silt that settles at the bottom of a ravenous ravine. I don’t want to live as if I’m forever having to translate myself to a world that considers me incomprehensible. I wish. I wish. A demand upon the world, to fulfill my capture of the contemporary appearance of my fluxing and flaring desire. I longed for an image of serenity which encapsulated the depths of the beauty upon which I wish I could see the world. At times, when walking around here despite the possibility of seeing blood pool from the arms of the eager, and within the white plain of their arms flesh, who’s landscape is studded by scab hills, hepatitis marshes, cigarettes burns, and dry sockets which hang near the creeks of their arteries, yet within what may be presented as unmitigated chaos and merely white noise for the in-demand urban youth which travel onto this oh so great city with bug-eyed ambitions, is merely a coordinated, calculated plan. A vicious, manipulative scheme set forth by those more powerful and in the know then I could ever be but the viciousness upon which they carry themselves out in order to keep this grand affair their little secret has scared me to the point of pious monkish silence. I may need to mention this here in the sense that I want to lay out to you, why I feel the way I do and though I would usually be afraid to put these thoughts into tangible coherence for the Coordinated. It is absolutely necessary so that another may possibly liberate us. A script of grand proportions (of which I am certainly the star of) who seeks to subvert my desire for expression, in a way it has become a filter on the world that has stained it with bleach white with Ahabian black ghoulishly laughing at me in which I hope what hops upon its shoulders are blubbers of schadenfreude so it can proceed to drown. I can not see anything beyond the regimented machinations (1+1=) of coordinated(1-2-3-4-) existence, because without coordinated existence, my thoughts (perception of it through physiological, auditory, and visual expression) would merely be an incomprehensible storm of circuits (libidinous locusts locate my erodisiac) sputtering through without purpose onto random segments upon my circuitry, which even in that sense to be random is coordinated. What is randomness besides the coordinated pattern of lacking a pattern(5-1-0-) that in it of itself is a pattern, a newly wombed revelation of the absolute. (1-1-2-) Innovative idea, I know. (Yeah, you’re dumb, I know.) Thus, in every day existence, to demean everything as chaotic, violent, and decadent is merely a child’s vocabulary in living. (goo goo gah gah, the unreasonable reason for the unreason of children which beckons the senses of reason, the high-pitched-always-bitch notes that contort us and beckons our thumbs towards their throats) The privilege of their corneas has been put to great use by Recology in their weekly rounds. The child merely sees things as uncoordinated, as the way things are but without motivation in the motion of the every day roots(who coagulate onto the fertile figs, pulsing in life’s juices, rotten or not, Plath be damned.) upon our desiring machines which constitute their insipid subjectivity. Without recognition of this fundamental coordination, without recognition of the contradiction of the need to fulfill and the fact of the insatiability of our flesh, which creates the fundamental coordination, this is the fundamental coordination. Ahh…conundrums call for rigidity in habits but when habits manifest into tangible and sustained behavior, the sustained behavior that is examined, determined, the who-is-he-she of it all, with blatant labels, that abstractly and permanently paint a direction in which it can be examined, interpreted, and thus future information on this-n-that are conditioned and tainted. We have then arrived at the Coordinated, Stagnation, precisely the opposite of succession. Yet, (1-1-1-1-) the rigidity of aspects of this world seem to allude even me, more so it’s begun to even impact me in this grand recession. In the sense that once I have begun to stare at this world, it bloomed white. In the vein of the horror of a van (a video I saw on Telegram, yeah I know.) crashing into a helpless family of four trying out their brand new double-bench(mimic wood, it looked cool on Amazon) quadricycle, one that they ordered a month ago, eager to try it out for the summer and which in this weekdday, within the month of May in the year of our Lord, @$^>, it arrived the day before(for them, according to pigfuker17, who poured through the corn lard city and state of Wichita, Kansas court records), so the van was quite a hurling onslaught onto the senses really. In shock, the toddler stares forth onto the mash of strands of flesh, metal, and sputtering oil that is the algorithm to a mildly sad and mildly tragic affair. (ohwell or olhell, oh shucks) I chuckle, as my Timberland weathered leather boots clanked along on the feeding trough called Market St. I have no drive. No reason to work, really. It feels as if reality seemed on the precipice of an epiphany, it no longer had the will to live. Market St. was the perfect encapsulation of hell on earth as the scoliosis-laden streets eked out blue on the foundations of barely motor cadavers that stole tic-tacs in search of sustenance. Then there were the smoke shops with saturated sepia yellow lights, advertising the usuals packs alongside San Francisco tinged essentials like Alibaba chilly cranberry vapes and Fair Trade(Afghani farmers who beat their wives are cheaper) kratom bars. The market competition of the puffer jackets who donned ripped Levi’s jeans, a cotton ski masks which dominated the chemistry of the addled who cackled until their angled spines gave up, they stood tall at piss-caked storefront corners with everything on sale (ice is a little cheaper today hoo-rah!) Artisan whippets, hidden at the ends of the Union Square Farmers Market, have certainly become a craze (I saw my cousin at the corner merely drowning on his own saliva perhaps, that was a part of…?) but I found it personally disgusting, in many ways to lose control of my body is a seizure of it (Exigent exodus in ecstasy). Though many wouldn’t seek to understand these things in such a verbose and condescending way, its the truth of which I will harangue about all day (alongside knight-errantry) despite the animalistic protest from those that honestly loath such truths to be spat out as confident proverbs by anything besides a piece of text upon which their mothers (gracious and patient Dulcineas’) slapped, pushed and tormented them into accepting. One of many things, that come to mind when walking through the subterranean pathways of San Francisco which are lit up only by the shadows of neon lights blurred through the mist of seasonal rain.  My head was in a rush, yet my body stagnated in molasses-haven as it turns out that 3 hours, 31 minutes, and 20 seconds of sleep (regimentation in remembrance) wouldn’t satisfy the double-shot gin and tonic (with Vimto Saudi hibiscus syrup, a side of excessive wax dabs and foreign chronic it was quite a marmalade of sensations and tingles) hangover who’s toxic logic began to profit evermore, it was the conjunctive piece to me downing a dry ibuprofen(another shot of Bombay maybe), yet this would only get me half way to feeling in the mood of achieving something that can in anyway be called productive. My brow sweats and it became a frequent tic to constantly wipe it off in the middle of the walk past the yellow of McDonald blazing onto street view of the crosswalk and into my cornea. As I (And I) wiped at my brow (hand to eye) it felt as if others could see this. This pattern and repetition, liquid trickles and it seems as if in sync my hand develops a courage in independence. A seemingly American independence, a presence in absence that sought to subvert my processes and every day it seemed to get worse. Alongside the variety of mental deformities and conformities, it seemed to me as if my physical constitution will be given a go at as well. White is the purity of paranoia. I let the river flow. Perhaps I’ll get coffee. Navy blue melded onto red, purple gives way to pink which trickles onto banana yellow, blooming into a tobacco vanilla blaze until eventually vibrating to a serene vibrant mermaid green, and my beautiful queen who reigned over the coffee market sat amongst Amazon, Coke, and Eucharist within the heavens of a $2.99 ecstasy and so I entered.  The smell of burnt caramel, cinnamon buns, and concentrated cocoa filled my senses in endorphin waves, the rows of buzzing, busy body Salesforce and AWS worker drones chatted(peddling ways and methods in which to improve upon their multi-media entertainment cultural production conglomerate applications that incorporate de-centralized(DEX) crypto blockchains exchanges(EX) powered by Fijian generators, who fog the lungs of the indigenous, who for some vague reason deflowered themselves to Marlboro at the tender age of 10) and playfully hissed at each other, as I walked along the lobby, behind a row of people on their phones or staring off into the crowd like I was doing it seemed as if the noise of tech was a cacophonous, cavernous storm that mechanically and in rhythmic coordinated fashion, rose up and fell in white noise, succumbing me and the line to its will. I noticed the cashier eyeing me in my peripheral, moments like these usually leave me in a state of confusion, even within this context. Why was she looking at me? Does she believe I am a threat? The minute she saw me she made the effort to look at me, to examine my figure as I walked along in my March-to-Rome towards her, perhaps it was the trades men style, not made for the comfort of a perfectly manicured air conditioned skyscraper office room dressed up, vacuumed, and sprayed with Castile oil (the smells of the herbals oils on Aleppo soap evoke similar scents of obscure carmine pine bark, tye dye, and ) based obscure Latvian (research chemicals) Castile oil based cleaning products by a caroled carousel of low-income Latinas who impale through the beanie wearing flannel losers (I’ve developed an app that has made it easier for the limiting of labor productivity costs!) lack of cleaning habits. I am not coddled nor caroused by such petty comforts, to sit in vinyl chairs, with eyes Gorilla-glued to OLED blue light (the cafe refused to allow for any upgrades for the monitors and/or area in general it was so stagnant and lacked the vibrancy of a first day) legs swaying in hypo-boredom, and fingers tapping in the rhythm of the hi-hats of a Future song (they know I talk that stick talk, that stick talk). It was too filled with stagnant patterns and clogged causal circumstances.. My eyes tore from my libido and once again focused on my itch for a venti double-shot-oat-milk-laden-5-fuck-my-shit-up-pumps-of-chocolate-one-half-butter-pecan-caramel-latte wore her usual business attire of a Starbucks cap and apron, concealing a simple grey cardigan, a low-cut white tee and ripped weathered denims, her ethereal glowing cocoa almonds rustled and twitched, barely concealing the fidgety caffeinated nature of this interaction. I felt on the verge of apologizing to her, she seemed as if to quivered and stuttered away from me whenever I would open my mouth. I felt besides from ordering my double-shot the need to give her command, to cut the crap off and- idea: he believes through a widespread principal act, in a decaying coordinated and stagnant world in hopes to liberate it in his own head he begins to conduct “Succession” which is to carry out the liberation of causality in his mind and reality in it of itself through this act, need to mention it more but this is his mental breakdown, to carry out the process of “Succession” add a joke that the local Zionist organization is protesting the fact that the main character didn’t kill a child also this story ends with Elaine having a gun pointed at her wondering why he’s doing this questioning him, with the beginning being the answer to the question also add Miles Styles the WorthWhile