Suicidal Ideation Is The Ideal We Are Striving For, by which I mean, me, and the crew that committee-wrote the unibomber manifesto. Or to curl the burl in a more friendly way, retirement, and not in the bladerunner sense. More in the Victorian sense... newly wed and nearly dead. Oh, it's nothing but poorly reflected reference in an ancient gleam of silver. Or sciency entropy, all thermodynamic. Seriously, I cannot do this opera seria anymore, it's become so terribly Germanic to me, where have all the tarantellas gone? To bizarro-world Napoli, I imagine.
Suit up, show up, or suit up and lounge about and go back to bed in said suit, how about that? Do a taxi driver routine in front of a mirror. Everything in its right place, every comma and apostrophe impeccably placed, timed to the tenth of a second, there's still things that can be placed with precision for purpose in the cold vacuum of space. It's not exactly absolute zero, and there's energy in a vacuum, and there's cosmic rays, and little tendrils of big bang consequence spreading out like the fingers of a limp wrist. Lazy plankton riffing on rhymes, no aspirations to pascal's reason, but even he paid homage to spiky shocks from the left ventricle.
Ah, words are fun, there's still something to be squozen out of that. It's like the deepest drill currently in this plundered crust, still sticky with a little tar, it's just that the tip of the drill with all its noisy diamond machinations, it drowns out the whole noise of why we came this far, so, say, psychedelic tar, faaaaar out man, mind manifesting, it's not a simple u-turn, i have fond memories of things that used to seem important. But now they can be fodder for metal riffs, cause there's joy in a pounding rhythm section, escapism, pathetic and righteous.
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