Innocuous moments stretch through the night
like unwritten nostalgia
condemned to change forever.

I sacrificed my creativity at the alter of some therapy.
I relapsed on existence, tortured by egotism.
I wandered off in a hurricane, chased
by something, it brought me beyond
our breathable atmosphere. I'm alright with it,
This. Whatever I feel; I live.
God does not give me strength but,
Nothing will. Being and darkness envelope
everything
becomes a comfort; safe
here.

I don't need to tell you
how much or how sorry,
Truly, I'm losing it, this, my

passion, my hopes for music
and writing. I am in longing
for the session, in memory;
Fleeting, I don't seem to be here, so I become
so much and way less than who I was back then.
I'd give you my arm, my neck, any body part you'd
accept. Those things just weigh on me.
I wanted to stare down mydriasis,

I long for your saccades

I'm sick of believing in things.
Lets break the dialectic
and go for a swim

Feeling that burnout
but I got the remedy.

Ran several kilometers
with a weighted backpack
on 3-MethylEticyclidine

but I only felt something when
Love Inc. by Booka Shade
played, it reminds me of that feeling,
Freed me up.

**** the gender thing, no one asked to be
born, just wanna live
without abject judgement
for something you never signed up for;
I never really felt I belonged too.

Alas,
una
dabit
quod
negat
altera.

Such power runs thru
cascading technology,

So driven is the word
spread thru comms networks
and uttered by multifarious devices;

Soon consumed
by feedback and
amplified until it

subsides for lack of dopamine, and then:
Soothed by new content a cascade begins again.
Socials can feel like a perpetual, unstructured interview
but think what a novel form of interrogation it is
and what a humane place this is become;

Yet some still hold to their crypt
over this brave new world
and the people in it.

Yesterday's analog echoes,
Today's digital samples,
Tomorrow's quantum timbre

will change how we hear ourselves
or determine our fantasies.

Thus passes a lifetime.

.Tuam Videbis Vitam.

Strange jealousy
for a past held by another
in painful regard.

I should like to be honest
about our fears, aspirations,
Our dreams, desires.

What we feel and need.
It is hard to accept I am safe,
To accept sanctuary. I built such
walls, became a prisoner to my own
configurations, then escaped and found
I had become a fugitive from heaven,

A cognitive dissident without a cause,
A philosopher who had lost their cogs.
So I tried some O-desmethyltramadol
and was reminded I don't like opioids,
They distort one's self in a most craven way.
My recent use of apotheogens makes it clear

I need some new practices
to sooth the sacred alter
betwixt my temples.

,Look at my shadow,

A long time ago
in a psyché far far away,
The Empatheon was our domain.
We chased it with such passion, determined
to stay up.

Now I revisit the matter of Entactus
and suffer
for it.

Going through my old school copybooks and notes,
The scribbles and drawings portray the mind
of someone ill-at-ease with the world,
Yet they summon odd nostalgia.

In the calm of the room, by the window's
fading sunlight, I leaf through
my secondary school biology experiment book

There are lines and references to Gordan Freeman
from Half-Life 2, and other art media of the time,
such as quotes from Heisenberg in Breaking Bad
and embarrassingly detailed instructions
and cost estimates for synthesizing MDMA.
Maybe it's for the best I didn't take chemistry.
Then again, the margins of my third-level notes
contain updates on darkweb marketplaces of old
as well as Anglo-Saxon poetry and Game of Thrones.

I wonder about my metaphysical health during these times
but make no judgements on fond memories
of old friends, home comforts.

Strange, these moments
from past lives.

Sometimes I'm afraid
if I were to be gentle with myself
I would break.

I write down this thought
I had in the shower, and after sitting with it
realize I'm not broken.

Last night the claw in my head ensnared me again,
This morning I listen to myself and try to forget.
Give me some early Caribou, Booka Shade,
Chemical Brothers, anything to help me
forget. Anything to make me feel;
Any anything‽ True neutral,
Like it's any better
than you:
My history, stories
about the town. My psychology,
Mental isn't it, we only know what's behavioral.
Things otherwise meaningless
crop up in memory.
What's trauma?
People so colorful.
Why is my heart grey,
Why does my head fade,
Why would someone chose

In the evening
we titrated our doses
cautiously insufflating DMXE
until its threshold appeared; old hope,
That one could return
to the m-verse.

We listened to thumping drumcode
and watched a Soviet adaptation
of The Lord of the Rings.
Nonsensical  contexts were generated by
the juxtaposition of techno with our Russian Frodo
and Gandalf the Red.

I consumed no more than 7mg
and enjoyed little over two hours
of mild dissociation, pleasant warmth
and good company before the effects began to gently fade.
It is worthy of further assessment, but carefully
given its current age.

The following sentence is false. The previous sentence is true.
An infinity of eternal resolution.
Imbalance,
A condition of this old universe.

I never knew I’d live long enough to make it back
so I’ll thank you for that.

Sometimes I think about my life
and I'm struck by a vast sadness, for
my past and the future, hopeless, even
though I know there is hope, lovelessness
though I know there is love, and anger because
I cannot help but feel these things. I want to be better,
I'm trying, gave up all the things that made me forget
how broken I am, and I'm afraid to take them back up
again. Part of me knows I could be happy, another part
hates that possibility. Happiness made it fragile, it can't
show vulnerability and this's killing me. I am too afraid
of being hurt to stop feeling this pain and let myself out
and allow others back in. There is something wrong with
me and some days
I struggle to fix it
but other days I
just sink into it;

Another summer, lone wanderer
soaring through empty streets;
High on the city's quietness,
I chase the sky's hue: an indigo fade
calls to memory, asks of it to another place.
Cradled by the vibrant melodies
of my Lunatic Harness, I hurtle into the nightscape

It took many years to track down the compound
but I finally acquired it in the spring of '21.

It caused increases in timbral perception and aural acuity.
I could hear marching drums coming from the city center,
From across the lough I could pick out their faint rhythms.

At times things sound as if they've been shifted a 5th down
or have reverberant/echoic tails on them.

My housemate found it hard to understand me
when I neglected to pronounce my consonants
because I was not paying attention to the higher frequencies.
Despite this the cognitive effects are gentle
and unobtrusive (which is relieving
as tryptamines can produce confusion,
in concert with their enhancement and suppression cycles).

Music is listenable at this dose, and sense of rhythm intact;
Would that be the case at higher doses?

During the offset my ears felt warm,
Waves of spontaneous physical sensation washed over them.
This tingling feeling reoccurred a couple times
over the next day, albeit faintly.

Interesting that there would be an aural psychedelic.
Intriguing that other base tryptamines should be inclined
towards other sensory modalities.

DiPT for sound, MET for vision, MiPT for touch;
What sense DMT, DET, and DPT affect is unclear.
As is, the known psychedelics have a broad range
of effects. The particular specializations of the xxTs
are most curious.

Do nothing without intention,
Feel for the context.

Focus on others,
Be yourself.

Old friends corrupted by the apotheon,
Old fiends so wretched.
New **** as if we're more wholesome,
New hope for a free agent.

The weekend comes and goes,
I should party more. At night I go driving
around G-town in my old Lexus.

How does a man on earth live,
Does he live like this?
Exhausted,

Up until recently
I craved solitude.

As part of a longstanding personal tradition
I do drugs alone on my birthday.
This year I do flualprazolam and 2C-C.

I turn 27, and it occurs to me
I don't want to spend another birthday
doing drugs on my own.

A switch flipped,
I sought company.

So I found my people, drank two bottles of ***
and did a few bumps of 4Fucking-MilesPerHour
before eventually walking home at 7am on Sunday.

Let us focus on what matters,
Let other things fall to the side,

Let there be a wholesome truth
and an honest reconciliation,

Let our best selves manifest,
And let us encourage the best

in each other. I write this
'cause I reckon we're in it

for the long haul
surely as I know

Some aesthetic, some anesthetic
were it my life flow, floating
through spheres by which
I conceive of the world,
Each with its gravity
and our lifelines
traced in the minds
of others. I used to live
like I was in an episode of
of Skins. Spirals move in and
out of view while I wonder how

Its warmth apparent,
Those chill serotonin kicks
in the absence of close friends

Hear me shatter and dissolve
like a pane of ice dropped on a warm floor.
Barefoot, I stumble home
and wonder whether sensation is egoless

and why cognition is not; but of course
serius est quam cogitas.
I find myself in memories so distant
they are like past lives,
I am so changed, mutation, smoldering;
I remind myself

I have value.
    I am courageous.
    I am worthy of love.​
    I give myself permission to be myself.
    ​I am enough.​​

I care for myself.
    I am mindful.
    I am strong-willed
    I have clear intention.
    I share in the good life with others.

Hone in on those genuine desires.
    Health.
    Prosperity.
    Passion.
    Trust.

Trust in the world.

A month ago it was fall,
Now it's summer. I recall sensation,
A breeze ambles through the conifers, an evergreen
shivers as if in frisson, swaying against our dark indigo sky.

Social company was wonderful this weekend,
I am not hungover this June bank holiday,
But bad luck did befall a friend's ankle.
Last night I drank northern Buckfast
and smoked West Coast Therapy.

I have this sense, what connects us,
I thought it mere memory, what is
beyond that; why should we reach
out to it, or it to us? How is meaning
given synchronicity, two things berift time,

Those dopamine Roses (Imanbek remix) have me
craving mischief, they know the way;
I know of no other
reward

My heart is elsewhere, imprescient
as this moment slips by;
I no longer feel the thing.
I hear lonely memories of a new past.
Infinity, Crystalised;
I cannot say why you reached to me
in this ancient future.
My head is worn with anachronism
but I sleep to empty it
and search my dreams
for that profound sense of wonder

Unto the self.

Sometimes I fear my ventures are too vast in scope
but I cannot fault my curiosity or love of crafts.

It's all that there is, left here for us.
An infinity of eternal resolution.

Walking the estate
of my childhood,
Of adolescence.
Nostalgic loneliness.
The awe of discovery,
A life under lamplight.
Listen, naked trees shiver
in the winter chill, touched
by almighty rain-clouds. μ-Ziq plays Goodbye,
Goodbye.

Walking the city
I grew up in,
I grow old
here. Belonging;
History. I lost myself
in study, the humanities
which I dabbled in and other
dark arts. Forbidden knowledge,
Unspoken ethics. Ineffable wisdom,
Experience.

The end of the calendar draws near
to close to this bitter-strange year.

March was marked by a quiet,
No parades, drinking or revelry

to mishonor of our country's patron
Saint. Silence gripped the land, I float

though a ghost-town
and feel the kenopsia
of society abandoned.

Spring blew into summer
which passed quickly to
fade in the fall as winter
begs darkness, inevitable.

October was dead, no signs
of life save the reappearance
of some old friends, symptoms
of the muse. The annual festivities

were quite subdued, and it will surely
be a questionable New Year. Luckily
a shooting star crossed my sky as I

cycled home on the estival solstice.
For me that marked the end
of the year two-thousand-and-twenty,

How well-equipped our astronauts are,
Such rigorous standards set for them by their governments.
It strikes me there are certain things a psychonaut should be,
Some level of training to make us proficient in these practices.

How to build a program or curriculum,
And how do we assess one's competency
in configuring mind? We can qualify it but
without a quantifiable unit of measurement;
We can only teach through experience.
We must borrow from other disciplines,
Adopting as many methods of description
as are useful. Ultimately our notation will fail
the exploration of inner-space, I think no metric
can adequately represent how we navigate a soul
The territory we meander through is so different
yet we may share an inkling
between people.

There is this feeling
that some experiences
are ineffable. No, I think
it's that they affect our means
of expression. States of mind that
break through self-concept, dissolve
our components, ego, id or otherwise.

We must reconcile postmodern relativism
with the richness of our own subjectivity.

I fear the net is becoming
dystopic in the Huxleyan sense,
Much of it is now ruled by algocracies.

¶rovidence favored Big Tech's undertaking:
They tapped the attention-economy, our drive
to create, consume and pass comment on content;

You must excuse the radio silence,
"Necessity has me by the foot".
I question whether America hasn't fallen into timarchy;
The Titanpointe facility might be enough to convince me
the world's a stranger place at present.
We desperately need a method of politics
that depends on articulation rather than representation,
Something to foster a more intelligent society. I fear
strange and merciless times are upon us
which necessitate emissions control.

Amidst traipsing
through the town
I had such a clarity
as to where my soul
had been, as to where
I had gone;
Nu kyr'adyc,
**** taab'echaaj'la.
Who is it that's survived me?
Amongst my menacings
about this city, I was

human, briefly

Unto the universe.

When beliefs are all you have
they become of you.

All I have left
is time.

What do you do when nothing excites you anymore,
How do you cope in the post-epicurean world?

Chroma key a green tee with the galaxies
you wish you could visit,

Message me
and I'll meet there you there.

The thought occurred to me again,
Whether we should praise forgetting.

Sometimes I think it would be a relief
to delete everything
so the time that's passed falls to our wayside.
I don't know why
I consider living this way. Is it wrong?

You read the straw that broke the thought I rode in on.
It was a blade of grass once.

What of reward and belief,
These pathways that call us.
They drag me from this 'verse

even though I feel so bad
sometimes, sometimes
I just want to sleep

'cause I'm tired
and dreams are weird.
They seem beyond me, I feel

without control
but it's alright,
'cause I know

I peered out of earthen eyes,
Before him an open plain spread out.
As he breathed in I recognized that petrichor
we had prayed for and felt this was it.
That moment was like
the wholeness of
ember depth.

Soft earth between my fingers

breathe sempiternal
to shirk the sun.

I'm leaving
"the days that must happen to you".

I'm gone.

"How will we ever get out
of this labyrinth of suffering? -AY
Straight & Fast."

I hear you

There are many practical ways of disrupting the body
to produce interesting cognitive and phenomenological effects.

There should also be ways of consolidating and expanding upon
****** processes which extend to our cognitive system
to produce unparalleled psychoactive effects.

Everything seems to be happening at once:
Memories of every night out blur into one,
Aspirations to manifest now after so long,
And I am off-valence, so willing to be lost, to gain or be bound.

I wonder at our capacity for spontaneity
and wish I had asked for help sooner.

These sways don’t stop, the only thing to soothe them
is music. Those tunes are the most
reliable way this anxiety fades.
"Know thyself"

May Day is upon us,
Summer is commenced,

And I find I am strung out on existence again.
Hazy daydreams and nostalgic motifs
play out on the threshold of waking awareness,

in this quiet interiority.
These recurring scenes

of abandoned planets, weathered landscapes
and transmuted ecology, fading lithographs
by fallen civilizations, collective memories
become the sole providence of those few
moments, thoughts, wandering lights.

Questions to ask when difficult emotions arise: Am I in a process?
Am I being too ******* myself? Am I taking things too seriously?

"He called philosophy down from the heavens,
And placed it in cities, and introduced it even in homes,
And drove it to inquire about life" (said Cicero, on Socrates).

I watched Girl Interrupted
and felt slightly better about myself

but wondered when I would end up in hospital.
Everything looks perfect in the half-light

if you've got perfect eyesight.
I have such chronopathy

for these moments
that tear at me.

Heaven is dark,
and the dark is warm.

Much that once was still is
for one has lived to remember it.

After a long break I feel refreshed,
I had been working such that
my focus was waning.

Semper amicis hora,
I must pray and work
with love, rhythm and change.

I am awash with this stuff, day-dreams
and stupor, imaginings, and visions.

The life I lived when I had those dreams
I only catch glimpses of in my sleep.
So strange, with Eternal September over

and everything in flux, the world is
full of potential, possibilities, panta rhei
and thence everything flows

Walking home late
from a festive dinner,
I caught a glance inside
some living room window
and saw two women innocently shifting

"Those who are not angry
at the things they should be
are thought to be fools";

Yet anger impairs cognition
and blinds us to its exact source.
Is righteous anger always so coarse?

We are blinded by these flashbulb memories
born among a storm of cortisol
and adrenaline.

Those chemicals course through us
as a part of belief
in an effort to elicit change.

Yet
"...the good-tempered [hu]man
is not revengeful, but rather

I get the sense of some venture,
And want to push for experience;
The pursuit of excellence, what else?
Is there anything other?
The pursuit of Otherness, perhaps.
What of mediocrity,
And of what we say merits?
Does intention have merit unto itself?
Is our pursuit of the good life so premised on virtue,
And the Other as premised on whatever's vice?

I reclaim my cravings, and return
to attend to some wayward notions
in the darkness of my dear hometown.
Laudatio Ejus Manet In Secula Seculorum.
Who let the living out?

I've been running the shadows. Seattle. Berlin. Hong Kong.
I learned the hermetic arts, got chromed up, and lost my crew
after a corp caught our industrial espionage. The astral planes
are fraught with activity from a new plague. Best to hide out
in the matrix 'til things calm down. I'll write about past exploits
and can continue my ventures in psychonautics. Last night
I tasted a couple milligrams of alpha-Pyrrolidinohexiophenone
and stayed up until 5am watching Euphoria and writing.