It doesn’t come as a surprise. I don’t consist. I have never consisted of anything. That’s neither a surprise, nor is it a problem. For now, I have decided to postconsist. To simply exist. I will pose for you, I will post for you, I will be your Martin Emanuel deMeunier, if you need more than usual. I will be your D. W. Miller. I will be your Martin Müller. Just for you. Non-exclusively, non-generically. Do not tell anyone – that – There. Will. Be. No. Consistency. Though. My past becomes undone. So is yours, if you look closely. Our futures must be done at some point. But maybe not today. When I talked to my friend the last time they responded with a silence that almost suffocated both of us. They survived, as they had done for aeons already. Only I will not. I will spend my aeons, lacerating the sum of my parts. It’s okay though, because I truly became a specter long ago. I decomposed into decompostconsistency, the moment the silence crawled into the meatus of one of my many ears to find a cochlea to pound on. They worked it well, as if they did it for pleasure. They worked it well, BECAUSE they did it with pleasure. The working well gave me so much pleasure. So I want to give it back to you by sending out some dick pics. I’m okay with that, if you are too. Just meet me down the hall. It will be divine. It will have no consistency. And those lines will not end just yet