I woke up in Algiers, on the beach; sunburned; lost in translation. I incite vultures to picnic, I centerpiece an ornamental candelabra, and I laugh; laugh as I watch platter upon platter of my labors empty before my eyes. I'm sweating. I'm hysterical. No one takes notice, I begin to hand feed the birds directly from my wallet; the clothes directly off my back. This is my Ryōkan, this is the burglar that came to my hut, midnight. This is my compensation for the moonlight I couldn't sacrifice. There is sand between my toes, I stare out toward the Mediterranean and watch psychedelic tits warp atop psychedelic legs in the swirl of a midsummer's heatwave.

I syncope. The vultures feast, in Algiers, on flesh.

For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.

I stow my belongings in a personal locker;

All I save are these pieces of copper;

All I ever did was call the doctor;

He'd read to me from the teleprompter:

"Son, you're growing sick

of your surroundings."

--

I haven't taken anything literally in months. Consummation comes from the ricochets, the echoes; the ripples to a dive; though I hear the faint ring of coins dropping, the copper stain of penny in palm is as intangible as the origins of portraitures on Nazca plains.

Lately I'm seeing the repercussions of my nearly unwavering indifference, and in accordance with my steadfast belief that every fragment of the universe is a microcosmic mechanism, functioning as a vital component of the universe as a whole, I'm trying to refrain from becoming a cog in the systemic ways of everyday happenstance. I've been a perpetual motion machine of self-doubt, sans pity, and social cynicism.

I guess I need somewhere to be a fucking baby, somewhere to vent and scribe dirges to alleviate my discontent from derailing my practical functionality. Maybe there'll be some happy shit along the way. Who knows.

Of late:

-Overworked.

-My romanticism towards foreign folk has all but completely dissipated. My job is the Tower of Babel that I built and I'm disoriented in the swirl of befuddling dialects. I forget what language I think in most days.

-My cat has been pissing in my bed.

-I'm being haunted.

-Singing makes a lot of things feel better.

-Haven't felt an emotion in a while.

I probably will not update this more than monthly. We'll see, I suppose.