Yo Adrian. Rocky.

“It feels like a party every day. Hey Jesse!” said the college boy.

I can and do manipulate my emotions at will.

When I let go too much, I let Brahman poke me into the distress he loves. When I craft my own emotional responses and narratives, I’m not so much grabbing the tiller as I am denying the farce that is the stage play.

Refuting lies. Counter-acting. Ta-da.

“Another reason why masks suck!” yells the co-ed on the courtyard lawn.

Under the pink flower blossoms – cherry blossoms – with the college kids who have yet to be programmed fully.

Though they’re reciting Hey Jesse lines. And they’re probably all dying to get back to TikTok.

The app that murders the moments. The moments that are of no possible price.

I murder with my pen ink. Probably much more sane than posting a photo to Instagram.

It’s all so fucking stupid.

They’re reading an “in memory of” plaque on the plaza, with a sense of fun irony.

Dead man, though.

They should know it will be them soon, though some of them are closer than I am to the reaper’s door. Oh my.

Sad thought. Or not.

Or lucky them to flame out so soon – on top of it all. Full of both certainty and derring-do.

Envious of them and their teetering on the fence of sexuality – not knowing it ends in unsexuality; in poof to the procreation. Used up and gone. Orgasm fake for years after the kids are birthed. You know you’re fucking for pleasure only.

The machine thinks it’s having more matrix babies and somehow that’s enough. A software program still running when the game is already over.

Pretty silly stuff.

Ink pushing forth like semen. Joy. Delight.

Don’t be ungrateful.

Yo Adrian! Rocky!