what a horror show this world is. i know i talk about the s.o.s. all the time, but what the fuck can you do? every day is a fresh hell revealed. i think about life on the run. life extracted like crude material, life wasted, dumped in the ocean with the trash. think about all the rich and powerful in their smug tweets profiting from wars, prisons, murder on the streets, omnicide. and we seem to either write it off as human nature, as darwinian, and still think we are the smartest creatures, the apex species, the epitome of civilization. no other animal kills for profit and control, for absolute annihilating dominance, like us. 
i think about what it means to publish this, that sort of flows fitfully from my fingertips. is it even published? it won't stay. it isn't anywhere but in here. it doesn't seem to even exist in what i once thought the real world, the world you had to brainstorm continually how to break into. you had to be breaking news. i was into what was never news, or ancient news, what the news edited, in what was older than the scripted history of the patriarchy, the alternative that is crushed repeatedly. i think we may not survive in the land of the money giants. i think they may kill us all. but if we survive we may transition to something like tardigrades, once-human, in slow recovery, who can't handle money, but can handle anything else the over-humans mete out. 
what if history followed consciousness rather than imperial victory? what would be the history of consciousness? i imagine it would be history that in the headlong rush we make of time would seem timeless, almost standing still in an endless field of stars.