Self is still terrifying, y’all. More-or-less a column on MS Excel. In rows of [howevermany]: real words, tendons grip, portmanteaus, and onamonapias. You are nowhere. There will never be a soul to satisfy help. Nobody will ever pump your blood. That’s been manufactured and made and made. This is a heart attack to droop back yr skull; neck; 90-degrees on a ledge. Curbed. A tower of sacrifice. Perpetual grind. This Pyramid of Skulls. Fully endorsed by Discrepant and Carlos Casas. What more can you endure: