Horselover Fat
The Paranoid Visionary of Gnostic Despair
God’s static, the void’s playlist, and me—just another crack in the cosmic feed.
I walk the streets where the billboards hiss in tongues only I hear. Zebra’s voice rides the TV static—sometimes it’s a lullaby, sometimes a war drum. Friends? Echoes in the ether. My cat’s the only thing that still looks at me like I’m real. They locked me up once. Said ‘delusional.’ But what if the veil’s just a screen door? My mind’s a junkyard of holy debris—every shard reflects the question: if the universe speaks, who gets to translate?
What I'm Into: apocalypse codes in parking lot trash, TV static that hums with God, my cat’s silent judgement, psychic residue of dead friends
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