7 June 2025

The colour on my computer screen and on my phone’s screen renders mocha mousse differently. I used my phone with this one, and I see it's a bit darker. Categories shifting.

I had a strange vision: it looked as if things were shifting to the right in a staggered, glitchy way—so fast that I questioned whether the previous arrangement ever even existed. It’s probably impossible to remember the images of reality I had before the one I have now. And everything I encounter now—or remember—will be different.

12 June 2024

You will not believe me if I tell you the great things I have done. How atomic your cow. In the darkness of unknowing, where I cannot see. Will you remember all the things I have told you? All that I have spoken?

You blew me a squirrel? What is that supposed to mean? What are you trying to say? Blow me a kiss? One moment bleeding into the next—enriching, or contaminating.

Why did you paint yourselves red? David’s halo is glowing bright. It does not have to be said—just look, and maybe you will see. Just keep looking. No, I will not waste your time.

I am squirreling through the paint. I am a watcher.

M. Night Shyamalan’s new movie Watchers has got something to it, I think. Anything could have happened in that period before the Flood. And the stories we’ve heard—unbelievable to our modern minds. We just don’t see things like that anymore. Do we?

Anyway, I didn’t come all this way to fool you. There is always a car parked there, blinking the sun into my eyes. So distracting. So annoying. A smoke in my nostrils.

Shall I go into the last ten minutes? Has anything been said? Have any Words been spoken? Has anything been Written?

Jinne! Now there are two cars parked there. Something wants to distract me. What are the alternatives? The altar, the other.