I feel like I’m being buried by weeks and time, each day is a shovel of dirt. The perspective taken – that place people go, who’ve had sustained trauma, is a place where nothing matters because we’re all dead eventually anyway, the sun shall blow up, time shall march on. There is a truth to a perspective that is further away and so eats the other perspectives it can see. So you go to the furthest away. To the perspective that eats them all. And now climb back from that.

{Write a racist song, but all the slurs mean the wrong things.
{Also rewrite then I got high.

I need to be grateful. To live. In the face of great wrongs, deep wounds, never healing scars, a constant barrage of well produced and globally delivered strife, never-delivered justice, a constant onslaught by nearly every single piece of modern life seemingly designed to produce the stress hormone cortisol, and so send us seeking dopamine relief, so conveniently provided in the cocaine-level addicting sugar coated every fucking thing at the store oh and booze and fuck use your own imagination you know, you know you know you know – structural, and at this point an irretrievably intertwined plurality in the swirling fire of my (our) identity. Show me how you do that trick, the one that makes me grateful, she said.

It’s important to remember that something is wrong with the world.