trace logs

self-made man, self-made torments.
dreams, disillusions—is there any difference?
“this is real life—”
but are you not suffering
from all that could be?
fool’s gold, probably. i am tired of this sifting.
why not hoard everything that shines?
fuck it. give me obscurity:
lavender throws and a deep-clean downpour.
too basic, too strange, a sheep—not even a good one.
making metaphors of men:
one, a world; another, a worldview;
a 2.4-year lapse in judgement;
a 6.1-month lyric episode.
at my desk, waiting on gpt-5.6, and—
how does one survive
this human condition?
christ, what can i say?
a dramatic disposition.