inmatus interruptus

 

i don't know folks and peasants - these memories go back twenty, thirty years, maybe more - they're so merged with dust now who could even call them memories. more frass under a busted ottoman in longterm storage. they're nightmares, surreal fantasies, psychedelic wormholes, vomits of a decaying brain. are they cringe ... maybe - but there's some cringe in all of us and doo tries to avoid laundering and sanitizing itself, to avoid presenting an image that conforms to the images images say should be the image. doodoo accepts doodoo while attempting to minimize its spillage in dimensional exoterica

as novel always claims - this is a work of fiction for the sole purpose of amusing the sprites of non-existence - whatever the fuck that means - if you haven't already throw etiology and volition in the devouring dumpster and get on with the voluminous gyrally disintegrating work of your own peculiar hallucination

the inmate's journal is my hallucination and if anything like this even remotely happened may the nonexistent gods help us

we'll continue with the corporation circus vortex soon, then close with the vermiculously slimy and imbecilic academy, though a brief postamble follows in oaxaca in the basement of the amerikan consulate, which might be the only true part

none of this means we're out of prison. migrating from formal institutional life to the vast winds of the tomb doesn't mean freedom. at most it means we may have changed our clothes. whether dead or living, all is persiflage and kaffeeklatsch