There is an increasing need for me to create as if the end is near. There is an increasing need to transform materials from one thing to another. There is no reason that we know of for this. There is no reason to know. All we know is that we do not know. Nothing continues to grow. Puppet flesh increases and creases the landscape with greasy
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Yet I feel moved to work on written work, in part out of consideration for posterity... this feels from an even deeper instinctual level, and gives me an oddly abstract sense of comfort.
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