We are what happens when the seemingly unthinkable celebrity rises to power.

How stupidly we believe in our petty evolutions. Yet another case of something shiny that entertained us and then devoured us. We consume and become exactly what we create. In all times.

Everyone’s last wish turned out to be love: may I be consumed by the simplicity and purity of a love story, any love, base love or heroic love or transgressive love or love that is a blind and lame and ridiculous lie—anything the opposite of alone and lonely and sexless, and the absence of someone to care about or talk to.

When most sensory experience has been obliterated, perhaps sentimentality is the only defense against loneliness.

A fierce rage blooms in me. I think perhaps it is courage.

As far back as humans go, we have held such rituals. I don’t care which careful slice of history you choose to cling to, there is no part of being human that does not include the death spectacle: the resort to killing, through war or “justice” or revenge. Curious ways of practicing our humanity, we humans have.
“It’s like we’re stars in space. It’s like space is the theater and we are the bits of stardust and everything everywhere is the story.” Now, I believe that more than ever.