uncotton

i like to think my months of chores and tedious busywork will be available as a stylized two-minute montage after i pass

from each according to their funkability, to each according to his beats

dear americans, who the hell is 'the next guy' and why does he share your every opinion?

in me slumbers an inexplicable urge to reply "from my cold, dead hands" any time i'm asked to hand something over.