I am sinking into this hopeless bliss. Everything couldn’t be more unsettling. I can’t accomplish a thing without paying a figurative fee to society. I have no interest in my behavior. I don’t realize my facadistic impulses until someone brings them to my attention deficit disorder. I don’t care if my lifespan doesn’t match the posthuman. What have I that will hack my existence? Most of my parts work like when they were new. Devoid direction is my mapless conquest. I am soothed by the unexpected. I claim to live in it with ease; I now put it under reconsideration.

Reconstructing the dream sequence involves going back to sleep and when I say “back to sleep” I mean sleeping back then/not on your back/not returning where you left off. Sleepful content is had when learning happens, when learnedness is applied, and when there the uncontrolled yields a potential quality. This sleep is life to me. But I am also literally tired of sleeping and waking. Let it be one or the other. I now can handle both with equal interest, but trouble through shuffling the deck of nights and days. Tonight might be a face card where I get too much sleep or deuce to depravity.

What kind of precision can you achieve if you arbitrarily make a compound miter cut (CONFUSE MYSELF)? The final products are invisible to me and is there a good angle or a technique that works or does it even matter? I can help from being a rear-view filmmaker. I don’t need to record my life. Replays aren’t where I can live. Boy am I glad I am not finished with the filmography. Girl am I sad that I can’t focus on the current production. Nobody is the devine director.

Emotions are like magnetic fields, attracting its opposite. The element of reality known as NOW is rhetorical surface tension.