what the fuck 
Mindfuckery like this is something i viciously live for. im glad things like this exists, persists despite it all
prose felt like swallowing my own vomit (complimentary); like futile licking the numbing buzz at the back of own ashen nape with vaguely vertiginous tang (endearment); like nosebleeding Ad Aeternum (affectionate)
Makes you want to rot thoughtfully in a damp room just to desperately fuck your wet sop out and then back into urself into urself into yourself into yourselves. fucking out to be fucking in. to feel the great grate of being unbearably alive and abominably real and oh so wonderfully disgustingly human
you read it and feel like you’re decaying in some face-eaten, toothless haze of such immediacy, but in a way that lets you melt into the sensual volatile contradiction cowerloop of being to pseudobeing to non-being to being the urge to fold inward and then inward again, recursive origami made of skin-memory until you meet the barbed meat of your own condition and it's stinking perverse absurdities that isn’t even sure it’s real, just felt and and and then haplessly collapse onto it's meta-meaty warmth through filth and just thoughtlessly feel good about it for once or whatever the ever-loving
one of the best bloated-nothingmess that ever was