My name is Miles, and this is my gallery of words.

If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name.
— Kendrick Lamar
...paint it bLiende

...paint it bLiende

All my life I want money and power
— Kendrick Lamar

A test upon your stamina. A constant game of energy that’s stimulated by a single chamber that can’t be denied, but won’t be answered. Life is the most prolonged game of Russian Roulette possible. Because that chamber won’t bang until…

…this is getting a little weird when it comes to shades of darkness. I’d much prefer to just talk about consumerism greed with hypocritical notes and sprinkles of laissez faire interpretations. K?

But what’s that on your waist…

Oh, just a clip of judgement for those that built like this.

Nod if you wanna make, love with the enemy
Roll it up, baby smoke it up ‘til we’re high
— Lady Gaga

The great societal, stylish & sophisticated Sashimi plate. Sexy, selective and so, so seducing in it’s side-selfies. Suffocating in it’s splendor. Sliced & subtlety soft. The settlement of self-satisfaction. Saw someone of significance signaling for some. Snapping like a shit-stain. Starting to seem sick & sad.

And that’s how you turn human imagination and beauty into consumption for cunts.

this is for the hatred in you,
this is for the place of darkness they have placed in you
— Kendrick Lamar

The great red, white & blue American goldfish bowl.  Too fucking preoccupied with the new to ever let concrete settle.  Too fucking preoccupied with documenting entitled moments shaded with filters of trendy emotions in a fleeting snap rather than leaving a lasting handprint.  Kneel down, dirty your palm, and move on irrelevantly - too blasé.  Cartoonish Mickey Mouse insta-thumbs up junk-mental currency, courtesy of compartmental mentality.  Focused on the pieces given that won't allow for you to pass go even though the game goes on in a loop.  Hating on the next box over because their game is different.  Different in that it may be better.  It may be inferior.  It may just be another game.  Lost in a dusty closet of repetitive darkness.  Too content with throwing pieces instead of flipping the game board.  Thank whatever gives you fortune, because you wouldn't be smart enough to know what to do when the game gets flipped.  Because while you were busy getting riled up for the next flashing light, you forgot why you were excited for it in the first place.  What brought you to the show.  Songs existed before with the same meaning behind different words.  If that spark of yours could ever take, I'd pray for that forest of bullshit.  It'd fucking need it.  And I'm not one to prey…

All our shit has ever been is one single schizophrenic scene written by assumed views; portrayed as undreamt necessities.

nod if you wanna be,
high with the enemy
— Lady Gaga

A God & a Devil.  Amazing how the anxiety of either inner force produces a person.  Free will is a gamble of hope.  I'd prefer to narrate this.  I feel as if it made too much sense at the time, and won’t now.  A time that played too many comfortable keys.  Where deviated moments felt like inescapable inspiration. Rotten decisions were something to be betrayed.  Contrary motions of self-discovery.  I'd prefer to narrate this.  I'd prefer to select the notes knowing that none of this is meaningful in the end result.  So that the tune played would serve to keep me guessing in a natural selection of curiosity.  That might be bliss.  Bliss might just be, an indulgence of mistakes where the error is the answer and the consequences are simply learned.

We need to create artificial diminishing returns. Rewind it back, because for the most part none of us will ever reach the inevitable hard diminishing returns of having absolutely everything. And this goes back to the balance in possible pathways coped & integrated with dead-end human connection. Cutting through the evil of having is best served during the curious stages of regret for those that have…and flow.


Floating. Like spray paint crashing into a wall. Imposed art just reppin’. Flow’ting. How could I judge when I eat from the same field. Blind I am, might as well be a Sam. Samurai with fuck-you thought’s modernized into fame, fortune and shirts. Because my story is as infinite as my possibilities, but limited by my imposed clouds. Blessed be lessons on lessons. I’ll buy bullshit until I’m full of it. And as I pull that shirt over my torso, I’ll make sure that I recognize my body as painted.

Table 4 / Theory of Mind / Forest Hills Drive

Table 4 / Theory of Mind / Forest Hills Drive