Fuck, i am FREE. Boxed red wine, MCI bags, Skrillex, Tütchen im Hüttchen—WER KANN KOMMT RAN. From the 2nd to the 4th Quaxdrant: Emos drawing Edding tattoos, someone climbing up a bush = veganergeburt. Sop from the WEKs (those are the elite school kids) asked for rolling papers.

It barely hit—TOPPED UP. The others Josi Motte Konni Konsti Gina Berry Mister are whispering about my jacket. Neon orange with reflective stripes. Something like I'm making fun of garbage men. But that's just fashion/art, and I think it's important they exist.

But whatever.

Do you want to work like Sissifoot your whole life only to realize you haven't lived enough? Is it worth it?! What matters to you?

I'd love for everyone to wear whatever they want.

Pulling back-the only consequence to show them how wrong they are. I recognize patterns and I break them. The leaves shift in front of Josy Motte Konni Konsti Berry Mister Slacker.

I'm like Diogenes in his barrel. Still not feeling a thing. What are they even talking about? Conspiratorial clans. Blurred circles. Flower sticks. Some smoke lava-everyone's smoking out their minds. The stoner-worms in the dirt, the WEKs on the clean path, the screeching Hegelgassehexen. WHO EVEN PAYS FOR THE GARDENS? Am I paying for the gardens?