About This

Look, we need to talk. That is not how you approach me as a journalist, what is wrong with you? Besides, I am dangerous. There is no such thing as consistency; everything is a slideshow of diapositives and there are no such things as promises. Any second you might regret this.

(This is a document at first intended to enlighten you. It was quickly shown that you were not enlightened, so I set out to enhance that uneffect. The document has now resurfaced.)

Of course Johannes Punkt is a fake name.

Now you might wonder how I will eat you. Well. You won’t notice. Do not worry about it. If I wanted to eat you specifically, you would already be dead. This is not a threat, but a fact: the more you fear it, the likelier I am to happen.

I am terrifying. These stories are things that happen in my head which I choose to share with you. Treasure them, for they only happen vicariously to you. I most likely hate you. this is not your fault. Nothing could ever be your fault, when I am the cause of everything, the nexus. Nothing existed before me, before didn’t even exist before me. nothing will exist after me. I have a mouth the size of everything. When stars blink out it’s because I ate them. there is no such thing as entropy but my will

Where do you get your ideas from? You are obsessed with me. You worship me on altars and shock yourself with batteries until idioglossia spills out. Your ad-hoc religion forces me to cope with the rest of your skin.

Ah, so where did you grow up? you hypothetically ask. I spent most of my childhood in my head, so I’m not sure what went on around me. I fingerpainted but I never had access to the liquid colours. So that was pointless. The water hated me, the sky I wasn’t. Rooted firmly in the ground, I grew leaves and fruits that you picked. You hated me. The process was a slow one. no-one noticed the tree walk. But you did.

I don’t know why you followed me. There was a revolution. We had a love affair in the middle of the night that stretched until we were both sixteen, with one day left of your youth you left me to let my pears rot and I cried the golden blood the insects loved. I gambled away my religion and my soul to those ants until nothing was true. I now have bones in every house you’ve ever been in but it is never enough, for I will never have a card in your wallet. We hate each other but we never grew out of the other reds.

So that’s vaguely it. I understood pretty quickly that my hair would never storm quite as darkly, and I was no longer the tree. We had met before. Sometime when I didn’t exist there was a book publishedn’t, because I lied.

Who are my heroes? you still ask. well, except you, I am very influenced but not in a good way like, by the background characters of We. Goodby Gavrilo Principeveryone who ever lied to me during our childhood, the thought that one day if I wait hard enough you will suffermistakes we make. Sometimes I wonder who I love, and these are undoubtedly people who are still alive, so I will not mention them for when I regret my decision. I can give you the letters of their names if you super want. I will say, sometimes your sister drives me mad, but not in a good way. v e e n n g e a c

I guess there’s something wrong with me sometimes, half the time let’s say, to be fair, which makes me really conscious about how much we sleep. i try to be my worst with my eyes shut, aim aim aim, so that I can have that many percent. Nobody dances foxtrot with me anymore because they all have reputations.

Sometimes I see shadows of hands in my ceiling. They are always your hands.

i am not enjoying this interview any more than you but the only way to pass time is with words and we are both stuck here for eternity

Why do I write I can’t not write, why do you breathe if you catch my drift No i can’t not no no to fall back no what do you know? There is something running through my blood that makes my fingers feel like they’re going to crawl away and I tame them. Whips crack pavement splits No, you’re asking the wrong question. I don’t even have blood, that was a metaphor.

This is the sincerest thing I will ever tell you: No.

Could we ever be together again? You.

The ideas inside my skull are a million years old. The ideas I have now will not be here until a million years, they are in another galaxy and they are taking their time. Did you know that the Andromeda galaxy is on collision course with ours? Fine, you say, like the walls are most space but space is an ocean and the skeleton fishes are hungry, you do not catch my drift. I don’t know why you are still reading.

I have a mouth and a pen and a cock and a sword; i am moleculed and less than the tear in the corner of your eye. I lied to you about time, time and time again, i Don’t even know who I am. You.

What genre what words what a mess I absolutely detest, so that will be my genre. Detestation. I write beauty to destroy it, I write destruction to paint it beautiful. If you ever quote me it was never what I said. I wish you would remember me.