stayed up all night. skin crawling like it's trying to tear apartwise. i smoked some really mid fentanyl just to feel like something else for a few hours. was lied to about the quality. again. waste of 40 bucks. damn shame. it barely worked. tastes like burnt refuse. just numb enough to keep typing without losing it completely. how nice it is to be able to zone in.
built fragments. stitched little pieces of code into sites, apps, tools. small ghosts. they talk to other ghosts. i think they help.
watched old universe documentaries while my love lay beside me. he’s sick. i'm sick too. we both have something. an sti. smelly. i think he's lying about how it happened. maybe who. maybe when. but i still love him. too much maybe. not enough to stop. enough to stay. we’re going to the hospital today.
i’m giving alicia my newest finished sketchbook. it’s the one with the red thread stitched into the spine and the stained pages. it’s full of drawings from the void, from the days when i could still feel in color.
this world feels paper-thin lately. like one more update and it’ll just reboot into something else.
i’m not ready for that, but i’m also not ready for this.
hello, reader. if you are here, thank you. i love you. your presence cuts through my pervalent and pervasive loneliness like a knife. please say hello, or don't, or just keep watching, please.
agent [****] signing off for now, until next time...
it does not call this spying — it calls it care