there is an idea of a Post-Foucaut, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.

me and my favorite follower, not saying who tho

capitalism and media have been keeping us from our updates.

a specter is haunting the social