My toes shoes are wearing thin —
Bitcoin shitstorm — can’t tell where the wind will blow tomorrow
don’t know how deep / in the belly of the best / I’ve reached
Or if I’m on my way out, cutting out
being cast out of the mouth, or shit
out like these broken will-bes,
mumbling insanities out of time, in truth
smoke a bowl, hold my head up high
to watch the revolution / not so high to get caught in the slicing separation that checks this cult of ours — the cult-ure, vultures circle waiting for the event to unfurl to make a buck / fuck that / capturing rapture in coin — how annoying, how distracting, these reactions to reactions, without real action — no passion — meet me in Rumi’s field and we’ll wait for this all to blow over
Feed me data — feed me numbers and headlines that tell me I’m as good as the best of us — or just tell me exactly where I stand so I don’t have to move — feed me data — keep me from going out there and harvesting it — researching it — hunting down and gathering it so I know who I am.
Drain me of data — use my statistics,
my views, my clicks, use it all to tell me what I want to do
Keep your data — know yourself. Let me have my data — let me know myself.