I am a fucking communist. No one at the New York Times wants to believe I am a fucking communist but I do not write for them, and if you cum along Riding Shot Gun on a dirt bike out of Idaho. It’s about the smoke. No helmet can help you here. I don’t care if you knew Lenin. You head straight into the flames because you had faith. You had what. Faith. That there was a way to get through this wall of black and red. You got to go. Whoever here is, everyone wants out.

There is panic. Get me out of here. Some actually believe they cannot be tracked through smoke. Stunning. Your survivalist home in the ground will not escape. Escape is so yesterday. It’s about who you meet along the way. Criminals. Out here dying. Anyone can be tracked. VPN has you select a server anywhere on the planet. Depending on how much you know, choose any city. You construct an encrypted tunnel around all incoming traffic. Selecting le finality differing paradigms, and POV, the city). Idaho is burning now. Climate change means them, too. Most will stay and most will die. Heroism is what they do in stories. First, you see the smoke pour in like a bomb. Indoors is nothing.

Us survivalists are used to eating shit. I’m just on the other side. Like the fiction of an enemy. I am not the enemy. Fictional or otherwise, no one wants to be the dragging of the head and cabbages. Like no one is dangerous. Fanning flames is a job description. Idaho will be a pit stop. I loathe everything these people stand for. I am here to tell you, they’re dangerous. They want power, and not just for themselves, but for the other lunatics who will draw up the bridges now you just show me one time, one significant era, and you are going to tell me that the angels sit among the stupid, I am not allowed to say stupid in the New York Times because the word stupid offends the stupid.

I am only hanging tight to the driver of the bike whose ass I press upon. Whose back arches like a suspension bridge down in the night not unlike who says danger is not to facilitate dangeressness but to clap your lilly white hands and sing that Old Time Religion, sex. The bugabugga. Let us not go there. Dragging my second selves along a waist deep glitening almost blue pit of vipers. A survivalist survives. There is no sound in outer space. Mythic after mystique.

They just don’t know I can see them. It’s called cherry picking. Why would anyone read me at all. I have never been to Mountain View. I don’t even want to know where it is where whatever it is, lives. I have always wondered about that. I am not sure it is writing in the end. Truman Capote call this kind of shit, typing.

Typing, indeed. They’re tracing you. They know what you jack off to, all of it. You might need enema supplies. The doctor is in. The Bank of China is on the list of my Internet numbers, these guys track me, too. I am an idiot with almost no Internet skills, and I have never, ever, not even once owned photoshop. I can’t afford Photoshop. I don’t have time to learn it.

For me, it’s all physics. I handle analytics. My haters are my haters. I just assume they’re there. I see them. Ping me to the wall. Analytics make me nervous. It’s like, okay, who will be seen tonight shot dead. Do you really think you really want to know. You do not want to know. The moment the Okay. Paranoid, and I would live there, our bodies up in the stone claw cold windrafters being here will be mummified after fifteen centuries we will not survive all forms profound and on times ten, it continues to keep the legend alive and comes with video games to stare at while the smoke slides like a snake through the room. I leave my phone at home. Ping me.

This technology is exhausting and there is smoke everywhere. Nevertheless, these people are mainly poor. And scared. Everyone wants to eat a dirt bike. Look at me I eat motorcycles. They have been afraid all of their lives. Something about the air is going up in smoke in the higher elevation and smoke does not give a fuck. Phasers on stun.