for some reason i have been thinking a lot about time recently. but i have nothing to say.

to speak, to write, to explore the brain yet return to find the map indecipherable. a cartography of illegible memories and desires. Lacan said that that the unconsious is structured like a language. if so then i explore the crevices of its grammar and find nothing. a lexicon whose symbols are suffering.

i dont want to feel bad about myself, i dont. this is just how i think.  so as you tell me its okay and laugh at my angst behind my back just know that i am smiling at your words and the joke.

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