What is the thread of humanity’s survival but a man sitting at a bar with a drink in his hand mulling over the day’s events and silently promising to carry on for just another day. Life is so much easier when you’re not so Goddamn important after all. When everyone passes you by and you are like them, simply another face int he crowd. It is then that one can live again. That sacred eternally changing moment of that constantly atrophying instant of now. The earth travels faster than any bullet and we are all in freefall upon it. Wondering when the final fatal stop will appear?
But then, really, who really the fuck cares? That’s what the American scene is truly all about. Not worrying, not caring, and you know what? That’s just fine. Because that is what draws all the rest of those immigrants here. The ability to not have to care anymore. All this despite the superficial lip service to the public crappola. Yamamoto told the emperor that there would be an American behind every bladed of grass with a gun. Well, that might be true but chances are that he or she will be sleeping. I kinda like that idea a lot. There is an innocence in sleep not found in the confusion of bad choices know as waking life.
The craziness of the intellect and thinking that somehow one has any lasting influence over their own haphazard destiny only their karma. Their only treasure, an unfailingly willing heart.