The intent of art

You might find useful to ditch your phone.

Ditch your medias. Ditch your accounts.

Throwaways

are all you are now.

And who can deny the pull of the void?

Little by little I practice disjunction:

freedom is when you reject all ties

and go back to being a nobody.

Pick a faraway country. Become the immigrant.

Beware, it's not exoticism

When the system antagonizes you

you're really free to vanish.

I dream of going no contact

in a sluggish trail of resentment.

Eventually writing is screaming

in the hope of gathering some sort of understanding.

Vain attempt.

Some day, someone,

will summon your ghost from the spaces you left

between your lines.