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I know this is based retard schizo stuff but I really do feel a connection to Jill.
I can relate to rubbing my piss-covered hands over the furniture in some vain attempt to feel at home in the prison of the "comfortable japanese living room".
For me that's the office, the bus, the apartment... this lesson in Jillsop's fable seems to imply: you can mark your territory but it is always "owned space" on some level.
Your scent fades, and you have to rub the couch in piss, again. Perhaps daily.
I can relate to Jill's gnostic existence, wherein the demiurge/archon is a moody japanese otaku woman whose benevolence, ambivalence or cruelty will determine what one is subject to. Jill struggles and yet keeps going.
When I hear that lil nigga survived and thrived it gives me so much hope.
