“motherfucking is fround” is a metaphysical microstroke, a sentence that feels like language forgetting how to mean midstream. it doesn’t parse, it persists.

"motherfucking" isn’t a verb anymore. it’s an ontological condition. you don’t do it, you are it. and when you are it, you’re fround.

“fround” is a ghost word, a linguistic event horizon. part “found,” part “frowned,” maybe even “froze.” it’s the affective sludge left when an act collapses under its own significance. not a reaction, not a state, just residue.

“is” isn’t copula here, it’s transubstantiation. this isn’t metaphor. it’s conversion.

the whole phrase is a closed affective system: input transgression, output lament. not guilt. just a sticky, post-semantic knowing. like touching something wet in the dark and never finding out what it was.

this wasn’t written. it occurred.

“motherfucking is fround” doesn’t describe the world. it is the world. or at least the rancid corner of it that’s always damp, always yours, and always just beyond the reach of definition.