I must not speak or water will fill my lungs.

The looks are empty.

And the sea is very far away from the shore.

They say we know more about space than
the depths of the ocean

quiet water lapping water
cold dark pressure
raining little bits of
bathypelagic detritus ash

sunless thermal vent life
makes us rethink the order of everything.

What I found there wasn’t what I was
expecting or what I
wanted like nothing I
had ever known,

It’s been a long time since I read books
but it’s been longer since I heard a voice

that sounded human.

I know more about space
than I do the depth


I might be so much bigger than hydrothermal vents–
did they change
what we know? no.

Extremophile, archaea.

Read me my genome.

You’ve never seen me before.


How far it goes.

what they don’t teach you in acid-base chemistry.

i don’t think this is a hunger pain

anymore too late early hour drowning

water wondering it takes what to work,

feed the wrong beast a best

you can do.

better now blown out your tongue taste

isn’t food anymore

tight cramp base bottom of your stomach where

has that even ended up landed

you back at the start old foreign ground.

this isn’t what you think it is,


i don’t have words for this shit.

everything that was ever anything

you weren’t

awake out of a bad habit dream

you wouldn’t

stay still until your face is blue

how did you forget?

how did you forget.

how could you forget.

the condemnation tearing

down the rabbit hole

in one smoke it out

of the rabbit with water

that will wash out

from the bitter taste

you bite your tongue

broke the surface

tension you know

nothing can last

one from final hours

you had the audacity

to forget?


There is a sort of nostalgia to remembering what I could have done,

and of course the things I should have done.

A nostalgia to remember what I thought I would be.


“I hate microbiology.”

I hope I did well on the microbial physiology exam.

Something I never would have been,

it’s cute, the childlike

picture drawn by kids on a base of rifted representation.

What Picasso captured,

in spite of himself.

Too many things I never checked off the

waiting list to the other university, unanswered, maybe, no.

The imagination is a powerful thing. So is the mind, and

the body. Mortal enough to drag Prometheus down

sick sick sick.

The inevitable of course.

The eats up hope.

I used to be an optimist

now I just don’t give a shit

I walked two miles home the other night dark muggy, do what

has to be done. Very far away.

So I don’t imagine the future now

don’t give a fucking shit–

steal me that how not to care, rob it from my gods.

Sisyphus. Fail an exam again

it’s okay I have eternity until whatever.

Hope crumbled melted under

quiet silent

blaze of Icarus.

Dragon wings.

Tear me the stolen fire of the mortals.

Throw me down from the heavens.

Take my blood.

It’s scary, isn’t it. Watch.

Snap the lighter and lick the fire on my tongue.

Boo to the Hoo, I.


If I’m going to be honest, I must tell you that I am not.
And although this is a true story, I am not. Or is it the other way around?
I dunno, I’m kinda stoned right now.


I’m starting this journal because my therapist says it will help me cope with my rage. What she still doesn’t seem to understand is I am not the one in outrage, the world is.

But so I did it. I went out and bought this typedeck because I think the last thing I’d ever written I’d burned in a fit of what I like to call whim (my therapist calls this “unacceptable” but I only pay her to say that, really), and the salesman told me this should tolerate fire better than paper, but I don’t really know the specifications ’cause I nooked him in the cranny. Which I actually had not intended. But he was holding me up with all this commercial bullshit and I hadn’t had lunch yet, and you know how I get without lunch.
Actually you don’t.
You don’t know shit.
You don’t know diddly shit squat about me, and hopefully I won’t either


My name is Edgar Rocco Gianpaolo. I’m a subhuman, but they like to call it “clinical”.


The truth is there is none.


Just kidding. You wanna know the truth? I’m a fucking zombie. Right. Except without the dead part. So just. A decaying live person. So dying. I guess. Except I feel better than ever and pity you fuckers.

Can you believe it? I’m writing like anyone is going to read this. Who reads anymore? Sure no one I fuckin know.

I hope no one reads this, otherwise it’s meant I’ve not done a very good job at keeping people The Heeeell Away From Me™.


I’ve always wanted to write the Next Great Literature Classic.
But I’m a zombie — that’s the non PC term, the honest one, for all you dimwits who don’t know — and they don’t give zombies awards like that. Not anymore. I mean. I don’t know who in the shit makes these awards in the boot.

So what I mean to say is,
you’re in for a lotta bullshit.
The best kind. The kind ‘round here that we call honesty.
But with some melodrama because I’m supposed to like. Dispense my emotions.

This is pissing me off.


I’m not melodramatic, I just have a lot of feelings.
Why am I so angry you ask?
I’m a fucking zombie.
Case closed.


No, I literally mean that.
I used to be a nice, well behaved, law-abiding, non-homicidal human being.
But boo to the hoo, that’s a washed away dream but at least along with brain rot you get like revelation.
Maybe I’m just on drugs shit, did I take my meds today?


My fried Rocco showed me a song today and I’ve been listening to it on repeat.
It’s called United States of Whatever.

My therapist was like,
“I think you should stick to classical.”
And I’m like,
“Yeah. whatever.”




So I’m walking down the street and it’s a shit day here in the Socal and I’m just up on the out, right, rise and sunshiney before too many people swarm up the agora so I can just get my month’s worth of groceries, right.

And it’s kinda dusty so I got my goggles on and I’m walkin down the street and then I see this little kid there all unattended, unsupervised, with this big, miss-toothed up grin. And he looks at me and says,
“Are you a vampire?”

I’ve never been so insulted in my fucking life.
Do you walk up to to a person in a wheelchair and ask, “Are you blind?”

So I say,
“Are you an idiot?”
And he says,
“My mom says the same thing!”


You know how I said the truth is there isn’t one or some jackshittery like that? I said just kidding, but I lied.
Don’t you think it’s a little unfair that truths don’t exist but lies do?
And we get all shamed up from telling lies, right.
I’d be ashamed if I’d ever told the truth.
’Cause I’d be lying.


So I’m walkin down the street again right and I see this guy running, this scrawny scrappy guy going full throttle straight into the side of a building like he’s going to just parkour over the godvisced railing and guess what? He does and he parkours over the railing and I wasn’t expecting that.


Have I ever wanted to kill someone more than I do today? Cassandra says that’s what PMS feels like but she’s not a fucking zombie, is she. NO.


I lied, you gullible-ass fuckers. My name is Vikentiy Ivan Priest. Folks call me Vinson.
I didn’t lie about the zombie thing though.
But it’s a little more complicated than that.


It felt like a suitable day to post this thing. Just a silly project to experiment with first person and more world-building. I’m hoping to release the first episode of Burn-In soon, we’ll see if that gets done today–blame physics exams if it doesn’t.