Relaxation
exercise, flex and rest, still, frustration throbs away, impossible
to pin down, making psychic somatic, cells cancerous. Or is it just
depression? Until then, depression in the absence of cancer, simply
sadness, illness frozen, pain static, opportunities missed. The sheen
of dreams over those ice peaks is kinda like other people's heaven,
the kind you keep hustling for, when you can be bothered. It's a
chore, hustling for heaven, but it seems so bright, under the cracks
of those doors. The ghost of pussy, wrapped in drugged-out hugs, a
preta burrito. The master sinew resonates at every frequency, it
wants to be stretched but it won't be found, I'm twisting
psychologies trying to find it, but it can't be found, the closest
anybody on this planet ever came was the proof of fermat’s thereom.
Twilight
mind happens in the hour before REM, under the horizon, through the
spaghetti shears when I'm left to my own dream devices, delousing
machinery - shyeeit, almost learned what the sublingual code was for;
goddamnit's still on the tip of my tongue. I's fated like bait to
talk about the universe, and wasn't I going to say something about a
zero sum game? Name the game, if you're not going to play. Play the
game and the name drops away. No, that wasn't it.
Terminal
naivete. Yeah. Wizened delusions cake on and on. Layers. Players.
Haters. Trans-temporal empathy is where I find consistency that's
worthy. I'll try to feel my way toward what I know can only be a
fraction of the younger man's reality - he had to deal with a
situation that can't be imagined from outside the gravity well - and
he dealt with it by saying and doing things I cringe at today, that
sometimes make me want to erase everything, and all of your things
too, or maybe just relax and ride the stupid wave to anonymity,
self-annihilation through absurdity, whee! Oh, I cringe at that
stupid bullshit that's attached to me, like a birth certificate
folded into obscurity, like, whatever, as if. Still with the
umbilical web, is that what I'm caught up in? Deeper with each thrash
of revulsion. But those stupid things have a hint of obligatory
nobility, when your visor's got a tint of empathy, and you can see
the time and place like a multi-dimensional cross-section, or,
nothing like that really, but just the barest smudge of dimensional
dynamic that renders the cringe laughable. Terminal naivete...
...in
twilight mind, a cosmogonic primer. It seems more sensible than
anything has a right to be, and it feels like the screw is almost in
place under my hand, the neural map of my hand under the cortex...
just a little twist should do it, turn fun into profit, words into
deeds, unlock the bonus level!
Of
course, the “key” turns up spinning, aimlessly, in
extra-terrestrial gravity, for a pastoral trifle in some
perpendicular dimension. It's a tableau, that's how it's coherent, if
need be. If not A, then B. Let B = 0. Let it be. The fragment. The
conversational cul-de-sac, between me and Rose at the beach near
Johnson's landing, when we revived the subject of death yet again.
She told me she really thinks there's no conscious continuity after
the brain's expiration. At least, that's what I took from her words,
which is probably what I was meant to take - because I would err on
the side of being wrong if I thought I could get away with it, but I
don’t think that. Exhibit B, reality.
There
were values in that half-dream my cousin half-woke me from to play
Mario Kart. Probably the reductio raison I'm writing this.
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