Glimpsing the occupation of the New School in December 2008 alongside its September 2010 reenactment at Brown University.

He has manic-hope-vision and sees only good news: Pure Liquid Gold. He sees right past the warning: tea tree oil can be fatel [sic] if ingested.

Hope is homeless in the everyday. Its abode resides in fantasy and daydream. The destiny of the hopeful lies precariously between a "fools gold" and delusion.

"Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore..."

I think about fag face sometimes when a cock is in my mouth, or an ass is pressed against my head, or cum runs down my chin...

Echo Park, around Ewing Street, folded in on itself. Everyday drones modulated by environmental sounds. Sonic time accumulated in durations.