agitator cola

i love me an agitator cola—drank many thru the years—during the revolutions and convolutions of martial law and coups—upon the ferment fringes, the ferry boat frivolities, and mere highlighter battles with the brittle page—a brush with agent coils and deadbeat plenipotentiaries—many a casual contrainsurgency compote consumed—electroplated and anodized death from above—daisy-chained and strafed—a full life of fingermark detonations and finicky trigger fingers—oh, what a feeling, that subtle wisp of menace before the darkness—i’m the hand of the man who leads—the hand of the man u voted for, or supported on his rise—i’m ur hand by transitive property—aren’t we a peach?

What I’m Reading:

The end is coming. I picture a radical turning away from thought, argument, and image, not just an approaching darkness in which certain objects can still be felt, but a condition where they no longer exist at all, a darkness filled with fear, with imaginary monsters.

— Werner Herzog / Every Man for Himself and God Against All