What a fearful thing it is when our creation stops reflecting us accurately (did it even ever do that?) P. S. We're all trapped in the Other's dream and it sometimes feels as though someone else wrote our lines for us or sum shit
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most of my thoughts are second-hand, there are very few that are truly my own. there is an idea of a daliwali, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory or sum shit
It seems I am ILLITERATE
Maybe the real daliwali was the friends we made along the way
+schizopunk-media Lacan speaks of this