too much for me to hold in my hands. there is too much of me to hold in my hands. my passion spills over from my fingers onto the linoleum floor. i've tried to make many different contraptions to contain it: pages, pails, compressed bytes encoded and reencoded with the sing-song melodies of my reveries, excessive as they are. yet i must confess that i stare at their overflow and weep a little, for i don't know the logic rhyme or reason to deceive a true interpretation confining myself to a single form. feels very lacanian in that way--a test in futility characterized by how glamorous the single-minded chase can be.

and highkey, i love it. i love style over substance because so many times style IS substance! i recently watched a video essay analyzing the development of a genre called Grind Fiction. Including cult classics like Jet Set Radio, The World Ends With You and Splatoon, the genre champions throughlines of movement, freedom, and the impulse towards self-discovery. A y2k derivative filled heavy with breakbeats and Shibuya style, with games like the aforementioned having thick visual linework to emphasize its own cartoonish origins.

anyways, this shit don't really matter to me. i mean, it does, but it's moreso something I admire as a north star; we are not really intimate. i have never lain in bed with the trick-laced ironweight electric stimmy grinding of JSR; never flicked the dual-screen prowess of TWEWY at midnight under a cotton throw's pepper-warm embrace; never painted the Bronx River Parkway evening blue except in those years i was filled with a deadly melancholy that either the sky or my lungs could chill cool with--i chose myself and let indigo take its place.

i mention them despite because in another world these are my belongings. my to-go bags of sense and self; manual of style; school of design and schema; blueprint. we are not intimate, but i could easily see how one could gaze upon them as a lover with beauty; not in depth, but in passion. in honesty, my fingers really lie in my own cardboard boxes with my own passionate lovers. i have made room for them, carved out flesh of my heart.