There he was on the street corner. There he was in a photo in the preloaded album on the iPhones at the Apple Store. There he was on every channel, being crowned emperor of China. There he was strutting down the Paris runway. There he was in a black hole speaking to the dragon that controls him. There he was speeding down the PCH. There he was in the dreams of everyone he’s ever met. There he was on the couch in the trap house. There he was upon a pale horse; there he was going nowhere faster than you’ve ever gone anywhere at all. But this was before that, long, long ago. This was in another present.

Girls say he’s beautiful. He thinks he’s gauche. He’s just a nihilistic upper-middle-class teenager in Southern California who was once beautiful. He’s drunk as fuck and maxing out his credit cards. He’s trying not to scare the hoes, but it’s hard. He’s a spoiled brat. He absolutely despises liberals. He can’t even do a single push-up. He is a parasite. He wouldn’t last a single day in the jungle. He’d be gay if that were still transgressive in any way. He’s going to be sad if this is the only global crisis he gets to live through. He doesn’t want to think, he wants to die and live and die again. Nobu takeout. What a shame. He doesn’t produce anything—he destroys everything. He likes to watch things. He doesn’t like sharing. Blame his mother. He always knew the collapse would begin this year. He honestly prayed for it. Try to take his swag—he will try to take your life.

Why does no one understand why he’s voting for Biden? Radiation gave him the vision. He feels so numb. He wants to become the dullest person alive. He likes listening to electronica, driving sports cars, beautiful women, organic food, organic wine, and the sunset. He enjoys taking pictures of the sky in all seasons. Those are the only photos on his phone.

Police helicopters and patrols started up like two weeks ago. The block is always hot. South LA idiots flood Venice every single day. Lincoln Boulevard is no longer safe to drunk drive at 70. He’s had enough, he’s leaving. Maybe becoming addicted to nothing wasn’t his best idea. He’s skinny, he’s attractive, and he believes all other people are unattractive. He should maybe be banned from driving, he admits it. He literally just ran some guy over.

He’s listening to Oneohtrix Point Never in the Hollywood Hills, drinking La Colombe, waiting to vanish. Ronan Farrow is the only person who could truly relate to him. He wishes he were less . . . wistful. He’s so sick of performing masculinity. He wants to be absolutely annihilated. How would you feel if your father always called you a metrosexual child? He thinks Venice is a disaster again. The single most avant-garde performance piece anyone could do would be to purchase a few dead bodies from an organ broker (which is completely legal by the way) and create a private necropolis. Google “how much does a dead body cost” if you don’t believe him. He’s so done with America. He recently smoked weed and he believes it may have made him gay? He hates being trauma bonded. He’s trying so hard to trigger psychosis. He realized a lot of his friends are misogynistic psychopaths. This is not a good thing. If you think this is ironic, he doesn’t care for your opinion. His heart is beating loud. He will stay sober unless and until he finds himself in a mid-engined sports car.

All he does is listen to “Disturbia” by Rihanna and think about Steve Bannon. He still wants to become the dullest person alive. What is the most transcendental thing possible? He’s thinking private military. He’s not sure about much, but he’s sure he’s going to die with a severe opiate addiction somewhere in Malibu, with a net worth over one hundred million. Democracy dies in darkness! He’s drinking raw milk. He thinks the best decision he’s made all year is taking the blue pill. It feels great to have the same politics as attractive women. Nothing he says is offensive.

He was not the prince from the prophecy, or at least he didn’t identify that way. If anything, even back then he would tell you that he was just directionally correct. Always two steps ahead, possessed by Japanese cough syrup and the absolute spirit of history. He is laughing now as he abolishes the moment itself.