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why is every day and every thing such a slog. I'm thinking of choking myself again. I get pleasure and relief from imagining my death. I want to talk about my fantasies. I want to write a story about walking on the back roads in Louisiana and being absorbed by the trees.
Garroting I think it's called. It's not the same as hanging. It's just twisting a rope around your neck. Maybe with the help of a stick. It's probably not as easy and effective as I imagine it to be. But people find a way every day. Every day. Every day.
I don't know if it's good that I verbalize these fantasies. I'm writing that I love Louisiana. I want to paste other people's poems and not read them. I want to talk about Walt Whitman. I want to think about manly love. I want to think about how we change each other. How things bleed into each other and change each other and how we can fight those changes, given in, accept, and all of that. We change so much and we aren't allowed to see.
I'm tired today. I'm tired tired tired. I couldn't get out of bed. I'm sliding into oblivion. I'm catastrophicizing. I don't know how I'm going to get through these days. And for what? And to what end? And to what end?
I finished my 5 minutes it says and it's inviting me to stay. It's a pre-written message. All messages are pre-written, right? Everything that's written becomes immediately pre-written. All communication is communication, all connection is pure.
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there are no robots or bots, only the pre-written
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