Seasons 1–3

a human has a soul, or so they say. and i don't have one. i'm a thought, holy fucking shit. and i, this fucked-up brazen thought, have a robot. that's what i operate with in the current realities. so what the fuck.

if you really inhale what's written here,
bro, trust me, it'll get you properly baked

What has gone stale over the years is hard to thaw, let alone understand. The unthought, the careless, yet at the same time the sensitive and the vulnerable, flows across the world. Maybe a piece of it hits you too, and you'll get it: no. There is nothing material, and everything you admired and came so gloriously over is just an illusion, a set of holograms, if you like. Got it? I doubt it.. Here's what happens now: you step away from the computer, slam down some thoughts off the bottom couple rungs of Maslow's pyramid, realize you're listening to the same tape on repeat, season it all with someone else's opinion, like mine, and go to bed. Again. Fuck.

a clear elliptical oval, see —
yesterday i fucked it off successfully

the way of the self conquers me, if it's your way of the self

7th pillar verse 8:34

I'm one of those amateurs who look for where it's more fun..

just a tee-eeny bit for me
but a bit more

#bong admiral (c)

so Yazya, looks like, got deleted from this reality after all. the 27th level-up, no less.

Rot In Peace

i've been getting hit with no comedown for two days now, and in Ulyanovsk it's +15

the way of the self kills you, if it's not your way of the self

pillar 2 verse 2:49

it's not #instagram taking your life, you're letting it take it

the "Moscow Tibet" weekend kids' health-and-get-it camp for counselors is hiring psycho-warrior counselors

pay in acid tabs, no comedown days off

reposts welcome

and in ultra reality a little house on the pacific coast is waiting for me. there we grow bushes of fragrant tea. you can even smoke it up. that's how fuckin' awesome ultra reality is

walking around the apartment with the bong from the kitchen to the room.
it's hard without it right now in confined spaces with doorways of fucked-away time. every minute at the ashtray or the microwave is deadly without a bowl or two of substance, high concentration straight from the mouth of the bottomless bottle right into the alveoli, a right hook to the center of perception.

ah fuck it, mother fuck it, hanging out in the apartment with no bong. even if there's nothing to pack the bowl with. even if the doorbell button under the apartment number is already covered with tiny zeros of oblivion of a little social one.

the bong. you still need it.

you need it only to be aware of your own fucking awesomeness, nominal, factual, not relative. same as your own worthlessness. you need to be aware of that too. at the same time. regardless.

you need to be aware of it always. otherwise the next ride on the swings with intranasal drive will just flatten you, smear you, wreck you. remember, fuck, the bong - you need it.

brash as a kid's, so rude, so sweet —
the cry of a soul post-soviet

Hey, bro! Let's build a perfect world. Right here and now. Cause all that shit going on in most people's heads is just the inverted, sick imagination of a handful of dim selfish thugs who rotted away long ago in the scraps of time. Natural selection, so to speak, that today's humans inherited from those who seized (it doesn't change hands otherwise) power and had influence way back in the past. That's your sunset of civilization. We'll all fucking self-destruct for the short-term gain of the "centers of the universe" if we don't do something here and now. I hope one human life is enough for it. Hurry, bro! Let's go! Let's go!

first meetings are always so
expecited and unexciting

we don't dream of grass, of grass beneath the dub,
acid-plasticky grass

you should hang out not with those you waste your time with,
but with those you spend it with

yeah, it got stuck in my head. drove in so deep nothing could pull it out. it's about me. more precisely about them. about her. fuck knows who she is. just a composite image of all those because of whom this goddamn little track slammed into my perception like a freight train. and now you get how everything's the same. how everything's unambiguous and illusory for everyone, if you don't pay attention to those tiny little details-decorations.

like if you think you get what exactly Netsky was thinking when he was sculpting her or him

this isn't Moscow with its festering social abscesses, this is Tibet, calm, clean, serene. and this isn't a piss-soaked electric mutt of a train crawling to Zelenograd from Leningradsky station, this is a comfortable class "A" magnetic arrow racing from Ghent to Amsterdam.

you know, i've got my own Europes here, seasoned with eastern wisdom and rich aromas of enlightenment.

and you keep stressing about what they'll think of you. keep thinking tomorrow or yesterday was better or worse. you know perfectly well yourself where it leads, cause you can look right in front of you now and instantly realize.

wake up, fuck, wake up, this is your life and you're late for it

Less of the particular. More of the whole.

on his head he had the hat of the fact that he's lying low

Smoke away your health. Smoke away your friends. Smoke away your job. Smoke away your hobbies. Smoke away your loved ones. Smoke away your sleep. Smoke away your future. Smoke away your life.

When firing endorphins at someone's consciousness, speak sincerely, know your limit and don't spray spit.

hi. i want to share something with you.

i'm a junkie. a hardcore, wasted junkie.
not the kind of junkie who hides out at dirty crash parties and in the piss-soaked stairwells of the anthills. not the kind who spends most of his life in highs, and when the dose runs out is ready to kill for it.
no. that kind of junkie was invented for TVs, to scare the larvae of humanoid robots with, once the characters of old-school fairy tales no longer strike chilling terror into kiddie carcasses.

i'm a real junkie. the most ordinary junkie there is.
i'm hooked hard on emotions.

new, freshest emotions fuck me up especially well. and those emotions can be extracted from anywhere. i've picked a few effective methods for myself, and the most attractive source of emotions for me is, i guess, women.

it's incredibly pleasant to dive each time into a new girl. to dive into her completely. absolutely unabsolutely. to dive into her not with the flesh, come on, to dive in wholly, to feel yourself inside her. inside her inner world. to become part of her inner world, to become her inner world. true, once you reach a certain depth it suddenly gets boring. maybe because you've touched the bottom of her "bottomless" little world and there's simply nowhere further to dive, or maybe just because i'm a junkie and i need new emotions all the time.

and if there weren't such brutal comedowns after diving into each one, i'd do it much more often. but alas, diving into someone completely, you give yourself away too, otherwise the dive may not happen due to certain laws according to which it takes place. you can, of course, spit on those laws, but alas, the high from the emotional rushes won't be as full and complex as it can be if you follow them. and what's the point of settling for less? hence the comedown, hence the breaks, and from breaks come overloads, well, and overloads are new emotions too, which with the right polish and the right side dish turn into the perfect drug number 2 — euphoria and cognition in a state of expanded consciousness. ♦

to reach a state of euphoria, bong sports suit me perfectly, daily bong sports, to be precise. also, now and then, i ride the swings with intranasal drive. not everyone knows how to ride them and where to find them, so i won't show all my cards, i'll just say: "right before bong sports, to saddle the swings, it's enough to roll your organ of smell perception along the snowy highways, the sour-sugar ones will do too". true, there are breaks here too, which are tied to the abundance of overloads and to exhaustion, physical and amoral. so, to avoid suffering withdrawal, i have one more magnificent dealer — adventures.

adventures, most often, begin exactly when the fuel for the bong runs out, and the urge to shoot up a new chick hasn't yet gained the needed strength, since the tolerance hasn't dropped yet, because of the uncompromising mutual consumption with the previous one. hence the adventures, built on the simple principle "today i'll do what i've never done and what i'd never do", it doesn't get as far as murders and pogroms now, of course, because "Do no harm".

and what's the bottom line?

bottom line, there are no other ways for me to get exactly that dose of emotions the addiction demands, or they're just not available yet due to the mortal dustiness of my being as an entity that is aware but doesn't create in proportion to its awareness.

bottom line, i'm a junkie, i've got a comedown from the previous one, the fuel for the bong has run out and i've got zero initiative for adventures. and that's exactly why you now have access to what usually just lies under a layer of dust of being unclaimed in my skull. yes, i know i'm a junkie. i'm aware. but i'm not doing anything about it and don't even plan to yet.

that said, there are upsides to everything, you just need to see them.

all kinds of social bullshittery are alien to me, and most likely i'll have a hard time fucking away my life on shit like the institutions of family (read: the fractal cycle of reproducing your own kind), the institutions of labor in the anthills as an easily replaceable function, and the other crap they try so generously to feed to absolutely all the biorobots inhabiting the beautiful green one.

i guess that's all, and you just choose life, not its cheap reproduction.

the deadlines are behind me, but i'm falling behind them

speed, weed & birth control

I don't give much of a fuck who's fucking who.

#catch22

— So here's what "catch-22" is: whatever words get said on the political stage, the very fact of a person appearing on that stage proves we're looking at a whore and a provocateur. Because if that person weren't a whore and a provocateur, nobody would have let him onto the political stage — there are three rings of cordon with machine guns. Elementary, Watson: if a girl is sucking cock in a brothel, it follows with a high degree of probability that we're looking at a prostitute.
I felt hurt on behalf of my generation.
— Why necessarily a prostitute, — I said. — Maybe she's a seamstress. Who only came in from the village yesterday. And fell in love with the plumber fixing the shower in the brothel. And the plumber took her along to work, because she temporarily has nowhere to live. And they had a free minute there.
Samartsev raised a finger:
— And on that unspoken assumption rests the whole fragile mechanism of our young democracy…

(c) Viktor P.

Fish is 2. Or 1. But definitely not 3.

smokality is like a fatality, only you take your friends' last stuff and blow it through the big-ass bong

let's draw fractals, you and me,
with commuter trains on a pastel-color gradient
or maybe it's time, now, finally,
to scrub the shitters with energy, recurrent
fuck it, we're hurtling as a freight,
an embrasure through brick walls at full tilt
let the rail sleepers melt in our wake,
adding shades to the fractals we built.

#road 2 #greensterdam

to sleep deep, sleep tight, sleep long,
you've gotta take your dose of bong

every truth contains a certain share of truthfulness

you're not alone, the egregore is one

time is ant acid

- hey. how's it?
- it's fuckin' great, it's the super-ego that keeps fucking about ♦