Traitor

The traitor and I have our very own boat—it's small and blue and paint is peeling off.

The traitor and I like to do something they call "living by our wits"—and we live on the boat that is sitting in the middle of a field.

The traitor and I are never going to die, if we can help it—we'll shoot any motherfucker who comes out to our boat in a field and tries to take our valuable lives from us.

The traitor and I are glassy and smeared—we're lofty in more ways than we can count, I tell you.

The traitor and I touch each other on the mouth—we have dirt in our teeth and our eyes.

The traitor and I can remember a time when people didn't do things like "feel"—it was better when people just "did" and "feeling" was considered beneath ones dignity.

The traitor and I are all used up at this very moment—we would prefer it if you would call back later, and let us get some sleep.

The traitor and I know people who are fucked—we're not fucked and we're not going to be no matter what you say r how many of you there are.

The traitor and I see you, flat, unassuming you—and we won't let that stop us.

The traitor and I don't blog—because there is no such thing as a blog, not now, not ever.

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I'm reading this.

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Also, Dada.

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SPECIAL MIDWEEK UPDATE

I made a video today.



A second mid-week update:

Go read the new Lamination Colony.