Listening to the cicadas. My association with them at some point became them as my lone consistent company—out there in the shrub fields and dilapidated real estate I call wastelands in fiction. It is yet not exaggerated from the truth, as these cicadas ring through my ears, a familiar shared death cry that they may have any company in their fleeting lifespan above ground.
Amongst my seniors I look up to, they tell me these loopholed life-hacks I forfeit to are worthwhile if I am to fulfill my self-effacing purpose as a no-budget spirit walker of d.i.y. cinema revolution. These tactics are necessary, for they are the very values of which why no one else I know even bothers to do anything as ambitiously cracked as I do.
One year ago at the time of this typing would be the last time I see anyone recognizable, let alone any company, in this place. And while I could not feel anything less for nostalgia, for to gravitate towards it is to sentimentally misremember how genuinely we all just wanted to complete the fatherfuckin photography. It may be about the feeling that’s familiar when everyone’s left the locale; that or the days, mid-days, and evenings I’d be there on my own anyway.
That was then, and today I have no longer a collateral excuse to spirit walk through a wasteland all day almost every day. Not when there are neverending captions to complete. Not when the cicadas I all knew back then are dead anyway. Not when and I’m done with prose for the bi-month at least.
MAILING LIST SIGNUP
Digital golem obliging…
Digital Golem: It worked though we wish we wer
It didn't work. Digital Golem: FAWK. *Flips organ*
OPEN DOOM CRESCENDO 