UnTiTLed by Muted sinking back into this warm drug high, not much of anything, not much that i can do. too tired, or just happy to lie back and close eyes. one more night in the life. one more night, thinking about the day. pleasure cushion pillow high. head back in the pillow. drifting. muscles relaxing, focusing on the nothing. thinking of a few people reading this. just a few. not worth writing maybe. no always worth at least some. these few moments are enough. worthless art, writingit kinda like i know its not worth anything. well, worth as much as i want it tobe worth. how much you think its worth. talk to me, email me. ill reply quite soon. its the last people you expect. cultures and collectives. most are worth shit. all comes down to the same type of people and thinking almost always. to observe sometimes is just as productive or more than actually participating. a system. made of strangers, emailing, talking on the internet, taking part in a collective. doing things, doing art. writing and drawing, doing senseless acts of vandalism and tagging, graffiti and art defacement. communicating, without much thought or reason. just sporadic, bursts of desperation from one side of the world to another. thinking maybe i guess but not out of necessity to take part in the collective. or at least not part of what the collective requires. the true underground. most are not. most even of you reading this are not. do not wonder what it means. you, reading this - you think so? i dont. if so, proveit. i wouldnt prove it to you. wouldnt have to. but its not that hard. fucking with the mind so why are you reading this? scanning over every few lines or so? thats what i do. shamelessly. dont give a fuck most of the time about taking in everything. the observant dont have to. dont ever write much. too tedious for meand im naturally lazy when it comes to certain things. art has a higher prioritysomething remarkably, and wonderfully fucking useless about art. like this.