synchronized, clock like
it’s been a long time
miss you, like daily
makes me feel crazy
think about you all the time
you’re always on my mind
-Tapedeck, Robot Koch
I’m so lost, if there are about a thousand roads and a single intersection, how do you lose that one cross roads? If there are too many bridges, maybe. Get your value for no money, maybe. The meaning is between the lines, hidden in semicolons and commas, maybe.
Why do you do that? If a man sits at a bar for long enough, does the joke write itself? I’ve realized that philosophy by itself is pointless; if you conclude that this is how you answer this question and this is how you should think about God or death or life and never act on it because its actually impossible to think that way, why bother? Philosophy, then, is for robots.
I feel my feet touch the floor, but that doesn’t mean I’ve not been drifting away. Smoke wafts up the corridor, from a 10 alarm fire down the street. Carcinogenic, probably, and you climb through a corridor lined with asbestos anyways; it’s everywhere; death in air.
How badly can you miss someone before they come back? There are no friends here, if everyone just stares at their computer screen for long enough.
He sits behind you, and every thing you’ve feared becomes about ten times clearer and sharper. One of these days you’ll lash out, tell him to leave, but you ignore. If you don’t respond, if you’re stiff, then he’ll leave, someday.
I’d kill for eye contact, but you can’t make eye contact with LCDs, or through them. Play a game to lose it then, K/D ratio for noobs, something along those lines. Cryptic messages, and the like, a deepening pit, with a distinct shape.
You get to come home for Christmas. How many days is that? Too many. And then what, no guarantees, I miss you but you don’t miss me. Tallies, countdown, tattoo the walls with sharpie and then paint over them.
Cover the paint with lyrics, everything smells like marker and poetry, when people visit you tell them that you’re following Kruger and its high art, not Tumblr. If you want to make a mixtape, is that too far? Dropping hints doesn’t work here. Nothing works here. The laws of physics have flown out the window and it doesn’t matter because you can’t to math anyways.
Dead emails, why do you care? I’ve always wanted to make a mixtape. Have a deep conversation one day, dance the next. There’s nothing scarier than the sickly smell of something like vodka, I’ve decided. She has one arm over your shoulder and is stumbling, maybe vomiting. She can’t pass out just yet because you won’t know who to call. You have to get her home, to people who know what they’re doing. What if you’re stopped, the janitor comes and you tell her to sober up. She tries, and you clarify: please shut up.
Is this what friends do? I miss my friends, maybe I don’t know what friends are; I thought they were always the answer to why, like why do you do this, why did you kill yourself trying to put stuff together, you know for your friends. Maybe its just me though, but when someone asks why, or when me becomes why that’s scary. Take a bus to Maine just to touch Canada, feel the chill of a border. Who won, again?
Come to California, if only, feel the surf and touch the sky. Startup culture is a lie, anyways, its about looking like you’re having fun when really you’re dying inside, am I right? It’s that new phone smell, that plastic wrap you pull off of the meat and throw away, carcinogenic. Garbage, cancer.
Go work for Google one day, Twitter the next, am I right? I can’t do that, can I? Start your own business, and then you can be google. So what if your name’s big in the Valley.
You chose one, everyone else is jealous; why wasn’t it me? It’s always my friends. Come home to California, a thousand cactus needles and a mountain on the horizon. If Arizona was your home but you leave it are you a lie?
To fly a Luscombe, he says, but he’s just pressing buttons. Air under the wings, fight for a country. Is the foreign legion still real?
Sigh too loud, and your roommate will wake up.
Avoid to much, and they’ll know you’re faking.
It’s alright, if it never was real anyways. Can you do physics? Neither can I. One thought, one bright spot if I love you will you love me back I will write a thousand words on my wall for you about how I miss you and tell them its about Kruger, for you, to sing, a mockingbird is not real if it doesn’t laugh with the punchline or roll with the punches if you’re here is it to late to say that you’re motto is to not be sheep if you’ve lost your touch will they tell you if you touch something like perfection will you know? Come back with me, dream about the stars and drink the oceans. It’s Christmas morning at some point in time, somewhere snow is landing softly and pattering the roof is only so strong and its too warm here too late for snow.
What do you do? What is one to do? Play Robot Koch to loud, sing along, clocklike, the pavel dovgal remix no one knows about, miss you, like daily, makes me feel crazy, think about you all the time, you’re always on my mind. Hum along until your roomate wakes up and tells you that she knows because youre both so far confused and lost on a thousand roads with one intersection and drift off to some threat lock your doors but open your windows live on the streets and in lobby ten dance down the infinite touch the moon on the roof of seven and feel the blood of the institute run through the subterranean, maybe.