Hello fellow Gamers. This is your daily reminder that President Trump will require military force to be removed from office because he doesn't respect the democratic process.



































My brain is in a constant state of distress. Everyone's starting to laugh, like, the fu*kin' jocks in the back are fu*kin' laughing at me, you know, and he's laughing at me and he's like hitting his friends in the chest like 'look at this fu*kin' idiot', and then I walk backstage and I fu*kin' cry.

I don’t have friends. I don’t have family. But I’m a very popular man all around the United States. I’ve been selected by the Italians to have my work protected by the Vatican. They’re a hard group to get attention from. But they speak to me through body language.

I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault.

In everyday interaction, isolation is manifested in a general code of mutual silence: primarily toward children, so these are not at once scared senseless by the life they have just begun, but retain their illusions until they can afford to lose them. In return, children are not to bother the adults with untimely reminders of sex, toilet, or death. Among adults there are the rules of ‘tact,’ the mechanism being openly displayed when a man who weeps on the street is removed with police assistance.

And then there it was, an oboe, a single note, high above, just hanging there, unwavering.