I am a failing automaton because I cower in the face of feigning anxiety for others to understand me as one who feels as if it's all going to be lost on me. Like, what if I don’t care, and that is registerable. I lose my place in the game if no one is able to understand my stake in it through mechanical gesturing.

I find myself fixating on the internal machinations. My heart lungs and brain become what dominate as resounding and absorbing surfaces for what I can only assume are emotions. I become and am bound up by myself, finding no particular grounding in people because when I do, it feels destabilizing by way of being redirected by external dimensions, fumbling in formulating a map for what I am now interpreting as an “alternate” pathway.

Could these alternate pathways models, these enframing trains of narrative code — could this be the expurgation of desire flows to which shame follows the structure of? If all futures register to me as convoluted outlines of being, could it be that I just can’t make sense of matter, should I just leave it all to will? Could writing be another format for alternate futures? Could writing function as activation keys for these futures to become realized?

Writing enchants; it exists as supportive tangential material for the labor decoy, another instance of the labor decoy. In this structure it unlocks spaces with the passage of time plus induced martyrdom (narrative.) If the labor decoy is understood like a black cube which is invested into a reservoir that is suited for an ideal generator, then this junction is where the “decoy” aspect of the decoy is able to be understood.

Through masturbatory fits of light bouncing (labor,) we scramble the code of the form that is the labor object to fit into its’ niches register. This convergence then is virtually complete, compelling a continuation of forwarding along all directions passing. The labor decoy at this point is a successful actor of space demarcation, an organizing victor “falsely” extincting aesthetic communities.