at first we never considered what it was, what it would be, what it could. we just felt the need, the words itching our fingertips. the loudest voice is always stretching to be heard. a quiet wisdom, anything but. we can’t remember what we wrote, that day or any other really. we just sit down log in and write.
this place is nothing but a metronome keeping time with our tide, as often a crest to breathe fire as it is a spot to weep. a place to celebrate. a place to curse our curses. a framework for randomness, it’s only point to parallel whim. to write is the act, to publish is an afterthought.
a peculiar spectacle, the guts of a life left on the table. watch it, consume, eat it up, let it breed judgment, let it breed contempt. what’s ours now yours. or so you think.
when did you get to decide what this was? what it looks like, how it sounds? conduct the pace of our prose, the taste and shape of our words as they stumble round your mouth. who says what we are, the very things we’re not enough of, except for us?
this is not a blog, it’s a blogette. the differential stands representative of our refusal to be anything but what we fucking are. our refusal to be what one (what you) might assume us to be. might assume a blog to be. we don’t cover events for the sake of an invitation. we don’t post praises in exchange for swag. we write what we write when we write it. and we’ll give you as much (or as little) as we well please.