inauthentic raze your analyst says you only need seven memories of anyone to be happy. with me, you've boiled it down to two: a single email, and one innocuous online conversation from a time before the rot set in. the files have been extracted from a floundering drive and flaunted in a message sent to an address i haven't used in years and don't know why i'm checking now. you tell me you're returning a watch i never knew i had. behind this white wall of words is a video clip of an actor whose name was invoked by the men who made it clear they meant to kill me the day they kicked my front_door down seventeen years ago. tennis shoes taking up space on a basketball court. an off-screen conversation i can only guess at. awkward silence in the aftermath. your sermon is suffused with a smugness i've come to understand is the only thing about you that hasn't been cannibalized from a living cadaver or carefully curated to create the illusion of authenticity. you surround yourself with people you secretly despise and feed them false platitudes. you swallow the swill they spit back into your mouth and call the fallout friendship. "i know what i gave," you said the last time we spoke. you didn't mention all you took from me before turning around and telling the world it was yours. try as you might, you'll never spin what you've stolen into anything of substance. a book of lies always crumbles when it's held up to the light. so too will you. 250916 what's it to you? who go blather from