Noise

flailing under weighted blankets with the world’s sniggering vitriol dampening my resolve which never was up to it anyway like everything else or everyone I’ve known, few as they may be, and diminished by time and the noise of my tentacled senses holding me under, I can’t breathe. 

Release me. 

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Pseudo-Modern

https://philosophynow.org/issues/58/The_Death_of_Postmodernism_And_Beyond

PSEUODO MODERN6
From my Ever-Modernist Collection ©Asperganoid 2015

Whether I like it or not… I am of the times…

and these times… are disposable times…