OF COURSE I’m alone. Denying that would be denying all of my life and reality. I don’t see anyone sitting here next to me. Being “somebody”? NOT in your repetoire. I look back on a life time of being alone in some shitty room. Of your absolute, empty garbage. Up close and distant. Always the same garbage. To you a “sticker” is a “platform”. I’m typing into a display. Me and my imagination are the one thing allowing for this trashesty around me to quasi-exist. Words, human bodies, an entire planet: in your “hands” it’s all less than nothing. I’m done.