the dome
good day traveler! welcome to my cottage. im a young man in his stormy twenties, "bipolar", porter of books, words, and jotted-down notes since 13, "male", and from the sticky, sweaty, thick, wet, rainy, and hard-concrete Philippine Islands with its brilliant yellows, greens, grays, and blues; fragrant fruit-trees, vines, and bushes; mud-scarred paths; shivering driving rain; flooding streams and rivers; dizzying, grass-pierced streets, suffocatingly tight, jungly alleys; cresting, plunging mountain roads; and bus-bucking gravel tracks. i chart the etchings that waft through my inward landscape and the winds carrying my ear-splitting wheezes, coughs, screams, and cries.
what its like to read: a bellowing rope tied to humanity's cradle is wound around my cracking body, yet my tongue wags strangely, even as my gaze fixes on mutterings on a product package, the heaving drag of my form, the people running all over every hill and dale, the whirring canals of inscriptions on metal machines, and the breakneck gurgling of staring at the wall.
mood board: murmurings of a single bearded figure in the distant peaks, floating space radio station chattering into the smothering vastness, signed letters from across our pale blue dot
shelf
july 7, 2025 (the moment i awoke and smashed this cottage into existence)
