Aprophenicthesia

by Octothorpe and the Aglets

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1.
I've, for five weird years, had a white speck (i.e. a slight bump/a light lump) under my right pec, and if I've steered clear of a mic check, I'll be terse: I was averse to being liked yet. It came into focus in the shower. That's when I first noticed and lost all my power. If I had no external locus, it was now or never. Was it tumorous or was it cancer? Rumors were numerous, but there wasn't any answer. It was just some lesion with no real reason. Did my nevus just arrive, or did I get a disease in some foreign countries? Belize, did you do this to me while I was swimming around? At first I was terrified - scared for the worst, but carnal thirst made those fears subside, so I swallowed my dreams and I fallowed my pride, though I didn't think my lovers could get accustomed to it. It was hard to get my flirt on; I kept my shirt on to do it, and though my cœur was hidden under covers, they could see right through it. Two schools, four cities, six girls later... Ate myself into overdrive, with a final thought, "Might as well not be alive, because if I can't choose how I don't survive, I can at least be obese and see to how I die." So I holed up and I held out. Filled up my folders with bucket lists and self-doubt, wondering if I were older is this the sorta stuff I'd care about. - Finish sixteen novels (just the classics) [½✓] - Watch every episode of my favorite sitcom [✓✓] - Write letters to past lovers, apologizing for everything they'd become from what I'd done [✓✓✓✓✓✓] - Sneak into hotel pools [ ] - Float there all day - Think on my insolubles - Drift away into one last lipophilicity - Lie in the pool facility for one last lie pool felicity - Just be swimming around in circles [✗] Water as a refuge, hotter and hotter until I'm slaughtered by the deluge. The morning's blotter will just read, "The ЮOЖ". And my gut's more pronounced and my speech can't compare, but my speck's still sticking around out there. I can't see my future as far as my feet: a death almost complete. Got desensitized to my speck's state, that pest of a blight since disguised as a breastplate. I still poked and prodded it as a pastime, but another point was plotted another bath time: I got used to it, no longer hated. But when I squeezed it absentmindedly, it deflated. It was circling around the drain. What was swimming around my brain? That I'd died in my mind... I'd already died. So I lost my way (and I lost my weight). What didn't steal my life just might've sealed my fate. I didn't feel myself, and that felt great. Because who knows what's gonna happen in five more years? Just drink whatever's on tap and have five more beers. Don't pretend there's a gap, 'cause I've your minor fears: How many of my exes don't have my kids? How can you tell how good at sex someone you idolize is? What should I seek out, and what's none of my business? Is busyness a virtue you should min-max? Will it really hurt you to never learn to relax? When can I let go of my mind's beeswax? I had a white bump, a slight lump of flesh on my chest. It was the best.
2.
Approaching the age of checking fingers for stopgaps - those things'll stop chats. I'll "..." dash. 'Cause a berth in the oven's only pregnant with meaning if you weren't, but that's worth careening to Schubert 'cause I've downed fewer fifths than Eighth Symphony. (We're both three-eighths empty.) Please don't bleed sympathy, my sin needs no empathy. Dah dah dah dum. Eventually, I'll begin to sleep without compunction, and after a while, I'll be bile deep in erectile dysfunction... So This is the age I will miss, and I wish it wouldn't end, but until then I'll keep on kissing any lips. Sisyphean feet. Running nowhere on repeat. V for vignette I'd better not let be complete. Dah dah dah dum.
3.
I want all my contacts to send texts so I can sync syntax to context completely. My memory needs all the cache it can catch, and what if they delete me? Thoughts get forgotten and pencil marks smear. Words that are spoken dissolve. Ephemereality isn't a problem I know how to solve. I'd like to skip straight through the streets, but I keep tripping all over the stares. I'd like to stay cyclically sweet, because nothing compares. I'd like to stay cynically sweet, because nothing come pairs. There are dead people everywhere – even here – and I won't even care, if I don't see their face in a mirror. Trapped in this graphic jam, static as I often am, hardly considering this driving. But our need for connection's so steep that we can't keep from surviving. Subscribing to tiny white dots on the ground; barriers that we can't cross. I'd maybe be warier if we were made more aware of our loss. I'm alive but I'm blindedly cited by Time as some soon-to-expire decor. But I kind of don't mind when I'm lying on the dining room floor. If you're fine with unwinding with wine, why aspire to more? There are dead people everywhere, even here! I won't even care if I don't see their face in a mirror. Glasses half-scattered, distorting the gloom; there's just blood where your heart used to be. But this tomb of a room is 1 3 tick 2 cryptic 4 me. If we don't write it soon, we'll spell doom "epoch," elliptically. I'm fine with unwinding with wine time to time, but you've nosebreathed your way through the ears. We've discussed your fine dining lust; I just find dining austere. You're closed then you're cloying; it's simply destroying us. Decant see your face through the tears. The only way I can get you to slur straight is through cheers, as if it's just a race to debase all your hastiest fears. But you can't displace all the waste of your weightiest years. There are dead people everywhere – and I don't even care. I want all my contacts to send texts so I can sync syntax to context succinctly.
4.
Voxed Wine 05:34
I'm three liters into this thing of boxed wine; I'm doing just fine. I'm just alone drinking my fill on a whim, 'cause I don't need to think until 5:00 p.m. So I constantly retread the topics I always peruse in my head when I pretend I'm talking to you (sorry), like: how life is just littered with elusive ladies. I despise getting jitters from quasi-half-maybes, and the ones who are into me I'm not into meet anymore. I can only be intimate out of scorn. Am I back in middle school with this mindset? Why haven't I been struck blind yet? Have I stumbled upon some humbling composite truth, that the person you want to be is always the opposite of you? But my Fate has been good to me lately, and it's hard to be fake when you are so fately, and I I'm more liters into this thing of boxed wine; here's what's on my mind-- where is my mind? My toilet is clogged and my roommate's to blame, but she claims it was me like we're playing some game... She's taking hostility from hospitality. Am I still her pal, or is this our reality, now? I need to get out of this house and out of this city, because even when I am soused, it does not look pretty. But Austin will just make me pensive and New York's far too expensive to roam, and Chicago's too close to comfort for home. Why must I try to be a drifter? Should or can't I be content to be a Lifter of the dead and the surviving, 'cause they just follow me around, or should I be striving for something far more profound? I try to live life like a story, but everything lifelike is so boring, and I I've just about drained this whole thing of boxed wine; now it's all on the line - no concept too sullen (no such thing as brave) will onset a lull in my trudge to the grave. What I hear as harmony, you call cacophony. Who needs epiphany when there's apophany? (As if ontology's based in chronology.) --My pick just broke as I was strumming. If I misspoke, I guess I had this coming.-- This song was made (I think) to make drunk thoughts mine, but now it's a charade just to drink this box of wine. And I up and die.
5.
Extrement 01:36
I am extreme at best; I am the best at it. I am the most extreme - how can I be more emphatic? I had the grossest dream where everything was static and I let out a hopeless scream; it was automatic. I am the most extreme; I am the best at it. Notice my one man teem - how could I get more ecstatic? I had a focused scheme opposing being dramatic but a ploce theme seemed more thematic. I am extreme at heart; I am the best at it. I am extreme in part. I am deemed enigmatic.
6.
Is there value in permanence? Is there value in value or in indeterminants? What's worth worth? Can anything be untrue? Happiness is imaginary. It's just the way you feel when you've let loose, sedated. It's not a fraction to fill a whole; it’s a reaction, not a goal. I can't sleep when I'm alone, but I get so tired of being on my own. It’s time I reconcile with the unknown threat of an empty bed. Disassociation should be your display - you'll feel connected with all sense of self rejected - that's not to say that apathy will only make you wiser, because you'll be lonely either way. Is there anything? Is anything anything? Are extremes noncomiddle ends to means? Seeds don't scatter 'til they're sown. Things don't matter 'til they're known. I’m tossing caution into the wind. I'm embossed in Gaussian plots but caught up lost in dividends (the cost of parabolic trends), and I’m not qualified to quantify so what if I just defy where meaning ends? Resistant to consistency, too exhausted to exist, I resent contented me (as if bliss could atrophy). I've no patience for complacence or adjacent symmetry. Dying is a fine time to be alive. I'm trying to define what it means to thrive. If eight is fate, how would you rate your life out of nine-to-five? I can't sleep when I don't exist. I'm in too deep (tried too hard, come too far, etc.) to show up shallow as this. Is this all there is? What's invaluable/infallible/unmalleable? What's the point of seeking what was never there?
7.
Cauterize 02:22
Every time I think I’m fine, I seem to cauterize my brain, like it’s my life on the line, while my daughter writhes in pain. It’s a strange game. Am I squandering my talents or embarked on a mistake? What’s with wandering through dalliance if the hearts don’t break, or even take? If I’m all alone in this universe, am I all but prone to this chorus-verse-chorus? It's a big if, a big or if/or/and or and/or but. But I wont take a stand 'til she takes a strut. Rut abuts smut. I'm a tad bit too pedantic on the topic of disease, sick of sycophantic phantoms clinging to antiquities. They synæsthese. Is my oil old? Do my serpents shine? As I ease control, was it ever mine to decline? Well it’s harder to be honest than it seems like it should be, and it's hard to be an artist living so externally. On accident succeeded, so, incidentally, failed. When the track go on repeat it’s like it’s meant to be derailed. Societal pressure all too familial. That snide little lecture: “You can have fun until you’ll need more money, a job, raison d'être, or a kid.” I shouldn’t let it affect me but I wish that’s all that it did. Friends always fleeting, never feeding the flame. Isolation as a boon, disillusion as a bane. There's no solution but locution of refuse and pusillanimous animus; ambagious absence of the azygous vein. So I'm hunting through hurt in the search of a spine. Every clump of dirt, I claim as mine, mine, mine. I’m fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. There was a time when I was able to escape from my own mind.
8.
I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to take a side or slide from wrong to right. I don't want to go. I don't want to climb, breach the peak to find that I’m at the brink of steep decline. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to swim - stagnant water being fodder for a hydronym. I don't want to tread. I don't want to wonder if this silent flash forecasts a violent crash of thunder. I don't want to dread. I don’t want to go. I don't want to fly. I don't want to break a stride and ride the long goodbye. I don't want to brace. I don't want to run from everything I've done so far, subpar to everyone. I don't want to chase. I don't want to share. I've still got lots o’thoughts locked in there, but I don't want to say. I just want to be… some unnumbered unencumbered causeless casualty. I just want to stay. I don’t want to go away. Go away.

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Sometimes sibilance is not enough; you must learn to alliterintegrate.

And: let's.

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released February 2, 2020

Originally slotted for a 2013 release, but Time has carried out its malevolent masquerade.

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Octothorpe and the Aglets Minneapolis, Minnesota

antihypothetical

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