^there is a mixture of things now. i somehow feel i'm going to explode, the anxiety of going out and start creating aimlessly and never go back inside. never stop. the explosion of creation. and on the other hand there is this hoplesness coming from the joke that everything is.
i guess the magic of creation only exists when someone knows it's pointless. just to vomit what's inside. because there is no other choice. because it keeps us exploding.
and no one needs to know.
the author is nothing.
like a parent to his children.