Autos are known for a yellow flicker on the platform after having issued a ticket from the last game that took place in the kitchen. There are no plans of purchase after leaving the party. Failure to do so will abstract from circumstances, coming to terms with the fact that she was in fact distracted by sparetime activities such as tv radio and computer without experiencing a midnight before we left the police station with little evidence and no matter of speaking. He believed it to sustain the pressure with little or no resistance and with qualities leaning towards intensity. These musings are not considered sexual as much as they belittle the existence of the boy.Go without any knowledge of the party and have "a good time". No time to waste and reach for a fascistic manifesto. ”This is not happenning”. She wanted him to pull out the teeth, the pain was the coldest we’ve had in the valley. These temperatures mean altered harvesting conundrums, eventually resulting in the famous saying ; if you don’t know how to find those hours they seemed to have lost between them. Just looking at her was no consequence for the young however the idea of prisons linger for a very special night. Too many people dressing up in fancy gowns and drinking from the darkest night-sky they’ve ever seen during their twenty years in the arctic. The best had left the building, as the famous saying goes. Many people don’t know where it came from and the summer had sent the longing for his tender touch on a roadtrip with her friends. She’d always thought that she´d be happy when that day came, carwash, the smell of petrol on the summerdress. The purpose is to build and maintain strengths and weaknesses. Please attach his own idea of freedom which he suspected she’d never understand. She was, after all, his reflections come to live in the night-time. Okay, away we go, only thing we have on is the radio.


The space inside the shop is the biggest self-analyzing hole in which its’ own smooth ornaments are useless and only hold meaning because they’re there, because they take up space and who would notice if I wasn’t here? The smooth plastic looked ridiculous from the very beginning. It was born a kliché and a useless consequence. But the consequence has diluted, it never fully arose, cause it was there from the beginning like a cosmic joke, covering all surfaces. So the eyes are cheaper than the cake. Even after the death of mania life breathes in all directions, nauseous and out of breath and the aesthetic threshold exists as something to sleep on.   


The variation isn’t explosive, it’s quietly living within but only as an expectation of its’ own resurrection. The variation that meant differentiating ideas has new meaning. The variation is still the overshadowing factor but who knows what it’s for? Its’ outer appearance is so immense that it paralyses and creates an opposed neomanic expectation of more. The effect of the postmodern aftershock pops up everywhere, like small puddles of deadlock in a popcultural underbelly. Aesthetic boredom creates unknown premises and the grant ornaments are useless because their consequense aren’t what we thought it was. It wasn’t predicted. 








I can give orders to myself and see how something manifests - makes sense in that moment and the relation between me and the manifesto becomes suddenly existent. In that moment dynamics aren’t just a term. That moment defines my narrative, my “inner conflict”. I’m not analogue not really digital, just here to define. I can not demonstrate more. 


The space inside the shop is the biggest self-analyzing hole in which its’ own smooth ornaments are useless and only hold meaning because they’re there, because they take up space and who would notice if I wasn’t here? The smooth plastic looked ridiculous from the very beginning. It was born a kliché and a useless consequence. But the consequence has diluted, it never fully arose, cause it was there from the beginning like a cosmic joke, covering all surfaces. So the eyes are cheaper than the cake. Even after the death of mania life breathes in all directions, nauseous and out of breath and the aesthetic threshold exists as something to sleep on.   


The variation isn’t explosive, it’s quietly living within but only as an expectation of its’ own resurrection. The variation that meant differentiating ideas has new meaning. The variation is still the overshadowing factor but who knows what it’s for? Its’ outer appearance is so immense that it paralyses and creates an opposed neomanic expectation of more. The effect of the postmodern aftershock pops up everywhere, like small puddles of deadlock in a popcultural underbelly. Aesthetic boredom creates unknown premises and the grant ornaments are useless because their consequense aren’t what we thought it was. It wasn’t predicted. 








I can give orders to myself and see how something manifests - makes sense in that moment and the relation between me and the manifesto becomes suddenly existent. In that moment dynamics aren’t just a term. That moment defines my narrative, my “inner conflict”. I’m not analogue not really digital, just here to define. I can not demonstrate more. 





Listening to Stop me by The Smiths. Feel embarrased because I’m only listening to it because that Ronson guy made an electronic sample-cover thing a few years ago, which I thought was quite catchy. The original is good too - takes more strength. So I just let the Smiths play for a while, while I shop for cat-food for my diabetic cat, whom I know I should probably have put down, but still try to recover. But I’m not 100% sure it’s not working, it might. I fill my basket with cat-food, Applaws and Barf, and end up buying cat-food for $100, wondering upon check-out if my card will be rejected. It’s not. I check my mail for the confirmation and sign a petition that has something to do with a gorilla. Delete spam, move spam around, I have spam-collector, I have spam regular, I have real real trash and I have trash to be emptied. I empty that. I check for confirmation, it’s there. I think about making some friend-meeting for the up-coming week. Why it feels like I would rather not, I like the look of a blank calendar. Ical asks for password, stress me out. I don’t know what it is yet. I cancel, he asks again and again and again. Stop it. I facebook go to, make plans with friend have not seen 6 months or more. More, definitely more. We plans make. I write in Ical, ask for password. Go back to Facebook. Look at old friends page, I look at her every day to strengthen the intense hate and disgust. Profile pic changing every day. Embarrasing I guess. But also feel admiration for people who are not afraid of intensely upping their facebook-game by constantly switching profile-pic. So uncool, so childish, so masse-annoying, so I like it. Not with this woman though, this woman! Different universe just. She’s pouting and I try to imitiate this pout, but as I do I feel more like my pout is a Miley Cyrus pout and I remember that I wanted to google miley cyrus fan fiction. I just can’t listen to The Smiths anymore, with voice like a stick of melted butter. So I just look at related artist on Spotify and go to New Order and play the hits and make a movement with my tongue to the beat of the electric drums, that spreads to my eyebrows that are trying hard to meet in the middle of my face, while my head nods. I check my mail, traveldeals, go to Venice and die. It’s a song. Delete. My body says shower. I don’t fully grasp the lyrics, so I google “I used to think that the day “ and he says “never come”. I play the song again and go back and forth to the troublesome parts of the lyric. Childhood, not child. Ok, not too misheard. I had a voucher for that cat-food, I forgot. It’s fine, I have the remainders of my breakfast next to me. It’s not morning. I’m not wearing any pants. Facebook. A friend changed her prof.pic. She’s on a big bike with flowers. I search for a name that I remember, but don’t know who is. Cat’s eating the crumbs from the table. We have many friends in common, but I don’t remember her face, just maybe a little. She looks like I fall asleep, why that be? She just got married. Designer, with low-key wedding and proud in that not proud designer-way. I read a rhyme that someone posted. I know it but from where. I google it, it’s from 80s film, about girl who lives in the city and wins a pony. The jealousy and overwhelming melancholy stunts my growth for a second. That beige pony, want that so. I have superstar sneakers for sale, so check ebay. Only released 5000 copies worldwide, but strange beige or tan colour. I have no bids, 1 watcher. I think about lowering the price, but I’ll wait a day or two. I check my mail. I think about the video for New Order song, we talked about, I go to next song. That’s bad. I go to related artists, put on The Cure. I think about my friends boyfriend, and feel embarrased for only listening to the hits, and being too superficial to be able to listen to a whole album. 1993 I thought that I could be someone who listened to The Cure, because I liked the cover of their album, and therefore bought a band t-shirt with that cover on it, which I’m wearing on a photo in a boat. How do you make the lines not bounce around in textedit? I try to listen to that album and look at related artists and think that I could look like siouxsie if I wanted to and that I should maybe try to do that. I accidentally strike desktop, mess. Picture of a leather jacket, picture of me holding up a sneaker, 3 files called kenny.png, kenny1.png and kenny2.png, picture of a scarf, kimono, a lounging cat, a palmtree and more. The Miley fan fiction, nothing reminds me of that. Somehow Miley Cyrus is always present in my mind and I wonder if it’s a crush or if it’s just that she’s the last significance, the last milestone in popular culture, who is therefore manifested in my mind as a constant measure of comparison for all other outer impressions. On the right there’s a skyscanner ad flashing Guam A.B. Won Pat, I was searching for the most expensive plain ticket yesterday, was Guam. I’m not sure where that is. I think about Miley Cyrus off-white gym-suit, finnally google Miley Cyrus Fan Fiction. Most is Hannah Montana related, such as There’s a new slut in town, Sexual healing, The Jerk-off sessions, You kinky skank. I read the lesbian fanfiction, something taking place in a lesbian bar where Miley buys an unexpecting girl a drink and they probably end up in lesbian love scenes. I can’t read it, I need password. Not worth it. I always wondered if the guy from New Order was gay, I google New Order and there are many different choices so I give up and check my mail. And Facebook. Picture of a turtle trying to eat a strawberry. And Barack Obama. Check mail. Mail from fake Forex, move to Spam collector. Think about how much I should seperate different topics, I have a tendency to mix everything up, but also can’t seperate everything into smaller leaflets, makes no sense. Could all that text fit in a Facebook post, I mean, there must be limitations. Still no bids on ebay, but I like the orange stripes. They make me believe that I will have bids. As a result of no bids I eat a chocolate and remember that I’m still not wearing pants. I think of how I was brought up believing that a sunny day, spent inside the house, was a waisted day. I feel sinful and I wanna listen to It’s a sin, by The Pet Shop Boys. They’re in the same circles on Spotify. The daily thoughts of heaven and hell and not going to heaven because I’m spending the day in the house. I will go out soon for another run from hell. Everything I ever done, everywhere I’ve ever been, everywhere I’m going to, it’s a sin, I guess the lyrics something like that, not important. I want a green trench coat, dark green satin, but it’s sold out. I know that to catch something popular from hm.com I should get up at 4.30 in the morning, to better my chances. In the afternoon it’s of course sold out. I have 5 trench coats, I greedy be. It’s a sin, it’s a sin, it’s a sin, it’s a sin, it’s a sin. And the antidote is gym, running, running, listening to the song Antidote by Swedish House Mafia. Running down, underground, to a (dying) bar, in a Westend town. I look up that dying bar, it can’t be and it sounds more like dive, but what’s a dive bar? I see that it is in fact dive bar and I deduce it to be slang of a gay nature. There’s a lot of opportunities if you know where to take them. I check ebay, no bids. I check my account history and realize that I’m listening to a best of The Pet shop boys, which makes me feel utterly superficial, childish but also lovingly satisfactory, to be able to surprise myself that I can correctly sing along to these songs, even though I don’t know where I know them from. I look at my ebay watching section and remember that I was looking for a Gizmo, Gremlins t-shirt. I do a search in clothing, shoes and accessories, but the cool ones are too expensive and the cheap ones are swimsuits from China. I do not want. I do a Google search instead, but can only find 80stees.com and truffleshuffle.com, too expensive. My Facebook chat is open and I see the Smileys I’ve created. I usually do only the regular smile, I don’t know what the others mean, no I don’t know how to type them but the regular one looks somewhat embarrased and his smile is now more coy looking than before. I feel he has changed. I look at cats. Party hotline, cancel all plans says Donna Martin when the Pet Shop Boys song Domino dancing is playing. Tell me why, don’t we try, not to break our hearts and make it so hard for ourselves. No, the song is called So hard actually. I assume it’s a sexual reference again. Donnas parents are out of town and she is throwing a party, raiding parents minibar. Brandon reluctantly goes and speedily becomes an alcoholic who crashes his car. He’s just about my age and his name starts with B. Everything has turned into stripes. I have only 10% on my battery. Battery low life and I wanna say I’m also feeling low but that’s not cool in that context and also, I’m not really.

Battery Lowlife

2015 -