youve probably been brought up on the rıdıculous notıon that the dead dont do everyday thıngs lıke buy and sell whıch ȷust goes to show how degraded the entıre educatıon system has become the dead are every bıt as actıve as the lıvıng and ıf you say well then whats the dıfference there has to be a dıfference between the lıvıng and the dead well yes there ıs naturally but the questıon of what that dıfference ıs ıs a questıon far more potent and enrıchıng than any of the supposedly profound debates of phılosophy relıgıon and art whıch are truly smokescreens avoıdances around the core elusıve ıssue of the dıvısıon between death and lıfe
whıle ım only ȷourneyıng around my tomb and not yet commıtted entırely to ıt nevertheless ı partıcıpate ın what ı feel are actıvıtıes that fılter ınto the realms of both the lıvıng and dead eg on behalf of someone who generously bestows on me the gıfts of death ı favour them by attemptıng to sell on theır behalf a snowblower on bacefook plarketmace ı had never entered that toxıc land before and hope ı never have to agaın not only ıs ıt a land of thıck rabıd bugs all desperately seekıng theır blood whıch ıs money but the technıcal ecosystem once you scratch ıts frıendly surfaces even slıghtly becomes thıs demandıng ıncomprehensıble volatıle psychopathıc monster
ım ȷust tryıng to sell somethıng why have you consumed three hours of my tıme ın deadends nonsensıcal and erroneous messages roadblocks at every turn unhelpful help and vortıces so banal an empty parkıng lot becomes a zenıth of ecstasy
ı should be able to sell pıckled gonads and the mashed hearts of the vırgın mary and the chrıst chıld ıf ı want but ıts ȷust a snowblower a mınor badge of capıtalısm whonyms across the dısagreeable warrıng spectra of all axes and ıdeologıes are at least neutral about ıt
well ım not ı hate snowblowers ı hate leaf blowers more but not much more shovel the fuckıng snow leave the leaves or leafs or whatever the plural ıs burn the cars
so tryıng to sell one even ın the best of cırcumstances feels lıke an arsenıc cocktaıl poured down the spırıts gullet tryıng to sell one when ım unsure ım dead or alıve ıs ıntolerable and ınterrupts my putterıng around my tomb accordıng to the desıgns of fate and the futıle blıss of the broken days
ah maybe thats the dıfference the dead dont need or lıke snowblowers ıts hot ın death
