A tree is probably the best thing out there. I talked to an acorn asking: "aren't you unsatisfied not being an oak tree?" To which they said "I am ontologically an acorn." Then they sang a pentatonic melody sounding in the upper register of a marimba because acorns are made of wood.
Sealed sap scaring as age usurps,
the road grew thin by commerce heal.
In the plastered sagging sandstone earthworks,
beaten water turns the wheel.
Listen for its creaking still,
never seizing, the long dead mill.
I force fed stable diffusion a quantitative description of my life and published them here so I can hopefully "monetize my essence" without selling sperm. If the results spoke for themselves I wouldn't be talking:
I was expecting the feelings people give to artistry to be inaccessible to regular people, kind of like a runners high.
(Those are actually bullshit)
I'm not above it like I'm on a catwalk about a factory line.
Know this about me: I can't use my phone because I'm so thoroughly drenched in sweat the touch screen won't read my fingers, and none of my clothes are dry enough to wipe it off.
"I don't want any advice or information"
There is nothing to talk about.
just because its a dry county doesn't mean we can't have a little fun
