Repetition is the spice of strife. One’s persistent longing does not reveal any innate capacity to be loved. Intimacy may bespeak immediacy? But then commands a hope for the possibility of some small degree of lingering sharable empathy. One cannot truly be in love until they themselves are willing to step aside. Emptiness in its lack does not constitute a human existence. To expect one’s self to be known despite the high walls that are erected around them is to maintain a fiction of geniality of false security of an irresolute presence.
Cold. Nice boots and new jeans. Bad hair. “Just being me!“, she might have said to herself as she strode up to the counter. Silently passing under the gaze of older men. The art hanging about the walls bespeaking black rubber worms ‘cacked’ forth from abundantly large vulcanized assholes. A quiet little student of her cell phone’s daily musings sitting int he armor of her cheap floor length winter coat. Alone. She sits at the table just ahead. A semblance in a way from the scribbles on the glass facing outside. Individual offerings in wax pencil barely legible yet very human by design. What have I to offer life from my own play set of bankrupt toys! Save perhaps the ability to avoid danger? To avoid the living embodiment of the existence of life. Though we all exist within the jaws of a trap slowly sprung. The expressions of joy signifying arrival by errant ‘femmes‘ so vulnerable and in total emotional disarmament.
If any seek discovery in these words then they are mistaken. Weight distributed on two legs. The exclusively internal conversation without the blank page a room for of youthful strangers. The sustenance by the fiction that wisdom comes naturally with impressionable youth who are relieved from the pressures of life by leisure. Life is a chess game for some of those who consider themselves outsiders. The occasional expected ritual involving consumption of the sacrificial offering of flesh. “And my reaction was!“, she did not say, mumbling instead a colloquial “like“. The residue of the ever mounting atrophy of spoken English vocabulary further despoiled. “As I always say . . .“, inferring an inability to think differently over an indeterminate period of time. “Huh?“, an exclamation rather than a question. A grunt rather than an intelligent groan.
The reality for those being distant from all and not just from their own kind. The currently acceptable spark of individuality coming in well-tatooed meat. Armed with an eight pack of toilet tissues under the arm, it fully and firmly secured. Take creatures, white Masai and just about as aloof. Sensitivity within sensual areas more simply an itch to be scratched. Symbolic leisure wear well within the set of faux riding boots loudly proclaiming a desired caste to be judged by. Does one accept this silent declaration at face value? The stars from the heavens above are merely bright reflections upon the white enamel of the coffee cup of track lighting. A thick wad of paper snatched ceremoniously from the pocket assuming respect in the repeatable transactional ritual of coming out.
Wrestling with the border guard who took liberties with my eyeglasses. Taking his tit for tat. The battle for each in clever words and a over the shoulder flip while my mother looked on. I was not Douglas Fairbanks but I took his cue.
A struggle in my bed and reach for my gun but it is suddenly too heavy to employ. I wake up and drop it back down. A lady salesman appears and shows me a pellet gun and a small revolver. A Daisy. The two remarkably like what I had in childhood. The younger generation hates me. Hates my generation and wishes it would die. As I wished for my own father to pass on sometimes. All for the mortal crime of being out of step with the way things tend to change. And daring to become ancient in spite.
“And God took away the power of speech and thus all humanity was confounded.”
The state took your balls. They leave you no options. A woman of today is not complete without a man to order around . Very publicly so. No more room for being male. Picking up the check perhaps? Daily life from one crisis to the next. Long train carriages leading one boxcar to the next all a foregone conclusion. Only one’s demeanor shifting.
The cold air format the gray world outside should have frozen the empty heat within. It merely challenged those supposedly within its reach to recall it. An artist’s life struggling constantly like fish just taken fresh from the water. That shrug of an explanatory smile. A fearless display of the plunge out of earthly existence. Mystery posed by a pair of over ample hips. A portal? One absurd assumption posed after another. Life cannot be that bad! Aggression barely clothed in the thinnest apparition of humor. A coffeehouse. A lifeboat.
Escape through a wooded glen. Pile of old weapons of war. Everywhere the shade of rust of what was. Supposedly was? Small arms and machine guns. Everywhere! MG42’s, a memory minefield foregone. Conclusions waiting patiently just behind the treeline.
There was a certain restlessness in his demeanor. Something beyond the collusion of opposites. Of the imminence of joyful times and simple relaxation. And constant disappointment. As if he stood before his own closet trying on old items from his wardrobe. Seeing if they still fit? The scheduling for the operation was on this coming Monday. The best part of the day and Sunday to work out or discover whatever enjoyment was left. Whether his usual routine would continue? Continue or not.
Death A. Head. The surface only skimmed. Raked. Above the tender surface below. Of, “who I am.” Of who I was. Or whom I had become. Life, purloined thoughts. Interposed with maybe? Maybe not. Maybe not my own. Trivia, Trivial. Vitality to be sapped. Childhood destroyed. Old, old like the odd fellows. Their bar close up. Up upon the ceiling. The phone falling apart and rendered un-fixable. My lady friend far ahead long gone. A head. Time to write the will. The world gone gray made sick . Turned afoul. Destroyed. Humanity. Godhood gone.
Why my world and worldview was ripped away from me. Here I sit mentally fit and physically reasonable. Waiting. Waiting for an opportunity. Any opportunity. Something that will never come again. Why? Because my generation who foolishly set the trend to Liberal mentalities were a bunch of fools. We were easily taken in by the notion of Utopia that was slathered upon us by those professional deceives in Hollywood, publishing and the counterfeit coinage of that segment that calls itself the ‘news’ media. Now I sit idle contemplating my imminent demise like some character in Orwell’s, Paradise Cafe. Feverishly monitoring the screen as if I was looking out the window at the planetary geo-engineered weather wondering when if ever I will see the sky and perhaps the stars ever again. Oh yes! My own eyes still experience what goes on around me, or does not. You see I have developed a long memory. Actively worked upon it in these times of unexpected prolonged unwanted leisure. The world as it once was now something that the current stack of techno-babies cannot imagine or possibly confront. They only know faux visual universes that ape insignificant semiotic post-Modernism.s that give an artificial flavor of worlds past. More in the way that prospective worlds of a tainted future all resemble the Socialistic plans for present tense co-opting. The destructive fantasy of equality by complete normalization on the model of the mechanically foolproof doctrine of the Corporate Globalist management of the entire planet. One where human life is an anachronism that must be stamped out from universal molds to offer perfect cogs. Ones deprogrammed of any uniqueness and ready to surrender all individual leanings in return for the occasional prize of some robot fulfilled animal desires. Semen and ovum for the uterus of one’s closed fist and not for the promulgation of an independent family. Mass routine inoculations to limit lifespan and vitality to the absolute baseline minimum or use as a bio-weapon to quell any unforeseen revolt. A core obsession to displace and dispel all Elvira Madigan’s format he planet. Bitter daily pills filled with arsenic. Life as perpetual suicide where each day begins and ends with a wish to finally get it over with and die.
No, I did not imagine this sort of world possible way back when I refused to follow my own father’s lead. Or take his hard won sage advise. Now the current generations are not even guaranteed the possibility of committing that mistake. That vague steel wool superstructure of state supported constant social justice harangue wears down all propositions that were once taken as solid foundations of sanity and successful life. Things like living a childhood exclusively within a home with two parents there to actively raise them. Instead of the modern conventions of constantly being farmed out to nurseries and day care and after school behavior medication by electronic screens. Live constantly with the faux apprehension that the easily available Internet cornucopia of phone accessible factoids does not comprise wisdom. Routinely surrender themselves in the blink of an eye to social media gossip that cannot validate its claims beyond an unconscious sense of perceptual awareness that it must come ultimately from an anonymous overbearing despotic power group in control of that same means of diffusion. The motivation by way of an unspoken fear that they too may be quickly marginalized if they do not go along with the central planning’s latest whim. Mass suicide of the the self by the continued consensus of silence supporting an increasing conformity by total inaction. “Do what you are told!” and squawk about it in private. Blame, blame,blame! But never act in your own behalf by supporting your own family identity against the latest shifting viewpoints. Take on the portmanteau of guilt without question or rage against those who would saddle you with it. Just sink back and surrender. Some form of ongoing unstoppable festering waking nightmare that easily de-trains any of my own unconscious nocturnal leanings no matter how vile or mad or insane they might be. The dreams of former conventionality as once imagined now a future fully and finally erased. “All hail the eternal guinea pig!” Chasing the world upon a screen while they remain perpetually immobile. This are the seeds of the Utopia’s sold to my generation by the evil corporate few come to flourish. I sit here and sip my coffee in the meantime. Looking out over the perpetual gray landscape of civilized futility an no longer dare to dream. Only being able to support just so many nightmares?
The room was still dark. A gray milkshake coverlet lay upon all covering the heavens. The time was debatable. He turned to his side so his old miserable bag of bones would find some small degree of renewed comfort. The covers immediately above him displaced enough t allow a sliver of cold air to tumble in at an open seam. His shoulders now crowned by its light touch he stirred from sleep. The flash of so many possible episodes of nightly travels lost to the sight of shadow play around him. It was morning. Christmas morning. The worst Christmas morning he had known. At least he supposed so. His dark droll manacle unlit by the trappings of the holiday. He had left the parts and pieces unpacked in a locker far at the other end of the hall. “No Christmas this year.“, he mumbled as he thought. No time for sentiment either. The old clock radio confirmed his fears. barely fourteen minutes to seven. No sounds from the spaces above and below and beside him. It was Sunday and the great calendar of the progression of days that those ancient Romans who had found it necessary to take note of such things said it was so. Commerce overcoming chaos. At present his degree of participation in such things was nil. About all that could be said was his bills were paid for the month running up to the transition new year. The great wheel of mankind spinning round in an endless cycle of financial responsibility and lack of ownership. It was not always so.
He could recall his childhood in bright flashes of images and sounds of both random and crisis prone pivotal events. The measured drums of the death of a president juxtaposed and a bad paper cut. The sound of his young cousin and the bathroom door yanked open. The grinding whirring gears of an all new plastic push button spring loaded battery operated missile launcher before a white flocked tree smothered in tinsel. Behind it all that Mid Century ranch house that had come and gone like some celestial barge in the mind. Christmases celebrated after then took on a more distracted tenor. Hard earned money freely spent on measured trivialities. Packages to be exchanged of various goods both expensive and cheap hidden cloistered within the garb of raucous patterns of shiny tinfoil reflective wrappings. A fresh killed treetop or a garish simulated version of same now as a center piece for the muted displays of gratitude through that mini marathon of an all too brief hiatus in the holiday season marking the cycle of another year’s end. He supposed the earth was lingering still at the farthest point from that all too powerful jealously glowing orb? How like society this celestial spoiled ‘look at me‘ type kid to spin it so carelessly around and around. As if on the end of a string risking some unexpected collision one day with another equally casually spun star? All these northern hemisphere rituals or rebirth seemed at the core of same so barbaric. The coming procession of death defeating for a time what one had recently come to know as everyday. All to be replaced by the birth of something else that would be in most essential details absolutely no different. Another year grayer. Another year a little more tired. Yet no farther ahead now than when the bloom of youth had been in force over the prospect of contemporary wrinkles. Time it was said was our father. But there seemed to be no mother to be found? The coming year cast as an infant. But fated just as surely to be defaulted eventually into similar circumstances some three hundred and sixty days plus hence.
He struggled a bit to re-assume the comforting mantle of the heavy edge of woven cloth reflecting his own waning heat. Laying in a fetal position his present tense appreciation of life a cold stove frozen shut feeling of the the dead of Winter. The heat was on but the windows seemed inefficient in keeping the drafts occasioned by a stiff wind from having their presence noted. The snow had commenced just after the sun had taken its place in the heavens. It illuminated the veil of gray that stood in for another day for that ever more rare quality known as a blue sky. There wasn’t a soul to be found on the streets as the crystals congealed in their slow tumble from the highest heights of the cached heaven. Gradually white collected upon the roofs and streets and lawns below. No other lights appeared to relieve the lake of well muted colors. Not sad as a sight so much as empty. He knew some would be out by late morning or afternoon. Movies. Mostly those that tied to replace the spirit of Christmas with a cynical contemporary cleverness. Mouthing a stilted appreciation of history as learned on screen like children playing with toys that have substitute for a stilted approximation of the cold hard realities once so evident in those former days. His head was full of them. The ones that had shuttled through his own time. His own era. The tree was after all a symbol of the ongoing progress of family. Of an ongoing lineage. Something that he personally was unable to produce. Moving slowly out from under the covers it was evident that he was persistent in his slowness. That reticence for the approach of the minute hand chasing its shorter stouter companion. Appointments and places to be ever causing a feeling of mounting apprehension as if he was ever the inexperienced pilot in danger of overrunning the runway. A feeling of sliding on icy ground towards the edge of a precipice.
It might have been a simple case of claiming that he had missed something along the long and twisting path that the highway of life had offered. But he had supposed and dined and enjoyed more than most. Many hello’s matched eventually by the casual nature of eventual loss. Some polite experiences of formal farewells. Others simply by way of uninterrupted long absence. The loss of a personal phone book. Of battery power, or the change in communication vendors. Occurrences that though sad to think of in some cases had become expected. The ebb tide of interests in the collective fantasy of the world as wrought by man no longer inspiring as they once had so passionately been. The destination that loom ahead seemed to demand answers that less and less he seemed both unwilling and unable to supply. The body demanded sustenance and shelter and put up a mighty intrusion into one’s thoughts if not satisfied it was true. But the soul that hid behind the heart was no longer able to be fed? He suspected that existence was only an illusion. An unquestioned vanity. And perhaps he was only a transitory projection that lingered for whatever time that he was aware of same. Yet their was a ‘but’ bestowed. A selfish wish to know all. The comings and goings of all these various events that populated the sum total of each bygone year and what was the point? What was the use. “Mere existence?”, he suddenly questioned. All the celebrations? What were they for? The simple salutation to some larger chaos for the privilege of consciously knowing it was so? “What thanks could he offer?“, he slowly thought, “To this endless gray waiting world?” And there was the rub!
It seemed to him sitting alone in his chair as the minimal light of the slowly rising gray dawn began to rise. It seemed that a ll the pay dirt had done played out. Days long passed unable to be recollected any further. Just one big blur. A buffer to all those things that meant something but that dared not be remembered lest they remind one that there was really no hopes left for the future after all. Another holiday season. Ten days left ti the twenty-fifth of the month and Christmas. The long pause of the sight of the museum of his family’s ancient artifacts all arranged exhibit style in a clutter about him. The gifts of long ago, some of them. Grown worn int the imagination having faded from the immediacy of want and desire. Who could imagine them now at center stage in a store window or holiday catalogue as being the most special? Too many others had come in the intervening years to take their place. All that was left was the material husk of what had long ago left. That fantasy of the promise of eternal perfection. The cotton grayness had risen now to appreciable luminescence. A milk shake state giving nothing away beyond several shades of an indeterminate lackluster blue. No definition beyond a few casual streaks to distinguish it from an intervening cotton blanket blotting out the universe of stars. The solitary sights allowed being the many dwellings of others locked in the rising metronome of early morning traffic. “Played out.“, his mind recited.
Some trivial diversions tried to cut in. The fact of his being days late on some bill. The requisite changes needing to be made for a job. All incidental crisis of no real consequence to replace that tempo of what had once been the drama of living. Involvement with the difficulties that other lives presented. Unfairly or not. Involvement with the hope of finding that perfect something that an inner lodger far within demanded. But would never spell out. Only hint at. Old roads and highways on the way to nowhere chasing the Sun both early morning and at the frost sign of the Sun’s daily fail. All those first spur of the instant ‘first’s‘ shared with someone else that one barely knew but hope to know more. But through the circumstances of choice and choosing the safe same old on had scrupulously avoided. That magic instate then quickly removed out of reach to form an imaginary mental point of worship to be added to the eternal untarnishable shrine of what ‘could have been’. But wasn’t!
Now of course, equally bereft of what was. And seemed never to change. But one day on the flip of a coin had changed. And now never could be indulged in again. Empty. Nothing left either way. Nothing to look forward to and nothing the way it once was. The forever in-between being his current place of residence. The chair he was sitting at had holes now. Evidence of the last acts of recent years. Of its membership as the prime actor in a final curtain call sealing off that span of time one could delineate as the past. The singling out of that period by the marker of the two deaths that stood out above all the rising number of others that once could mentally celebrate but had grown tired of doing so. Would the ceremonial tree with all the old artifacts of times past be recovered from the darkness of the locker down at the other end of the hall? All those handmade ornaments that presented the same of holiday guessing game. Trying to relate when other hands fashioned them in more hopeful times when hope was something that still sprung eternal. The spot on the small Florentine credenza was still taken up by the same old big gold leaf painted plaster lamp. It’s lampshade oversized yellow and dusty. No place to put it when the switch would have to be made. Taking one old item out of its accustomed place to temporarily replace it with another making this cluttered overburdened space even more so.
Not much to look forward to in the stillness of this ongoing pall that the paucity of the present tense with all its shortfalls and list of limited expectations growing shorter would present. The light above from the day restrained by the pillow gray formed a concentric wave. Like on that a large pebble might make in the idle of a pond but overhead. The universe above had sent its message and it had drifted by unheeded. The snow from the night before had gotten tired of the many roofs and had climbed down to rest upon the myriad of lawns below. Waiting for a hint of midday Sun. Hopefully to appear. Listless and impatient. Hopefully to evaporate away.
it was a pleasant sunny day strolling down the sidewalk at the edge of the beach by the water. The adjacent bike path’s traffic was slowly buildings with weekend ‘Tour de France’ aficionados many of whom who seemed to confuse occasional pedestrian traffic crossing their path as some form of momentary personal vendetta. Approaching the meander of the six lane highway to the other side of the ritzier section of the city’s center the Brahman section of the beach came into view. I knew that I was out of my depth strolling down this part of the beach. One that was unofficially reserved by some unspoken fiat for those in full flower of youth and wealth. And here was I nearly four decades past same taking my time at a pace that was annoying to all constituents of that age group! But there were no stanchions along the path to keep the riff raffia out of their zone. And my pittance of tax money was a good as the massive amounts that many of their parents declined to pay so rather than cross over under the tunnel below the big highway to an adjoining side street I rallied forth at the exact same slow maddeningly pace obliviously taking in any and all surrounding me as if it were part of a circus midway. And for someone such as myself, as I have said, being a multiple of three times the age of nearly all those before me nearly in the buff and vainglorious exposing as much well-tanned buff flesh as possible I am sure I was just as problematic. If not in the eyes as problematic as the occasional appearance of one of their parent’s in swimwear that might have exposed all the most unwanted bulges that their well-tanned sensibilities would have been fearfully abhorrent of. The current day’s propriety of this region not tolerant of an Michelin males or Pillsbury dough people.
One section demanded that all who dare not risk life and limb challenging the eminent domain of the nearby velocipede superhighway had to descend via an old crumbling concrete stairwell to walk amidst the well-heeled Lancome Bienfait buttered bun skinny thong-habited indigene. Granite ‘six pack‘ torsos supporting swollen biceps silently hard at work to garner temporal admiration within the surround of diffident maiden flesh. Their own ample Venus de Milo marbled chassis sporting sparsely covered surgically over-inflated boobies lounging like seals on the expanse of the low waist high sea wall. My own tiny, oft forgotten, ‘Johnson‘ becoming a tad nervously restless at this enfolding spectacle below I courageously descended. An navigational hazard appeared in my peripheral vision sitting somewhat draped on the treads ten steps down. A young man with his physical form lounging Etruscan couch style indifferently taking up a good part of the real estate nearly blocking egress into the teaming youthful morass below. My efforts to be covertly as circuitous as possible bruised by his verbal interjection. “Would you mind giving me a hand?“, the Apollonian face spoke in my direction. As if uttering some obscure stern quip from the more erudite unexplored postings of a lesser know ancient Greek poet. I looked back at him with trepidation as I had managed to circumnavigate his obstruction with what I took to be an extraordinary degree of stealth. What inordinate rule of the Gods had I transgressed to bring forth an utterance. Then I turned a bit and noticed that his lower limbs were quite thin and limp. His sunglasses armed continence directed its fire my way once again “Would you mind giving me a hand?” I stood there dumb as an ox. His appearance was no less than any other of nearby Narcissus. In fact, given the level of vesture and accompanying the Hublot chronometer and Roman Paul neck chain it might have been easily said that his was more than a few rungs above. “A Lift . . . in the literal sense!” Obviously considered an ox by this young man. Something though in my own private conversation informed me that this was a challenge of sorts. Not some saccharine issue of what might have been considered Good Samaritan gesture. But a challenge on the level of laying down a gauntlet with the corresponding probability of a dueling scar or worse. An act of retreat signifying cowardice. I didn’t consider that I might possibly fail to be able to lift him up. Surprisingly, up in the air he went and my back after many years of wear and teas held. I now served as pachyderm.
It was a strange career where though I was publicly scorned and privately invisible my talents at discretion and still adequate arms brought me into unimagined circles as this young gentleman’s man’s man in public. A role that I had once scorned but when actively taken on led to unofficial wealth and access to a portion of the world that I had vaguely heard of but never really knew existed. In some strange way I became the focus of a certain calling within the atmosphere of general decadence that this young gentleman traveled. Perhaps his own perverse nature as a millennial in wanting to be seen carried into venues by an aging ‘baby boomer‘ whetted some inner private fantasy of his own? While perceptibly considerable as ‘Gay’ in tastes to a casual outsider, agnostic to all things overtly sexual in practice focusing more on the regal exercise of power rather than real world participation. The demonstrated example of which led to a certain ranking of young attractive females in the environs approached were likely to approach who were willing to enthusiastically advance their desire to off participation in very forward offers of offbeat sexual gratification. Ones where I was tasked as their centerpiece. For me in those times of my scheduled performance in ceremonial entry and ultimate egress it was like reliving my own licentious young adulthood. A special status that for a while was entertaining but in light of age, stamina and reason soon became too problematic. I found myself comparing the levels of perversity’s engaged in. And to some degree found a fellow traveler in that regard from the behavior of my benefactor who only allowed himself to be engaged in an abbreviated version of some offbeat calling when it involved him ‘riding int he saddle‘ as opposed to serving as the conveyance. Humiliation having been foisted on him by the fact of his physical condition but not by current avocation to continue it through physical lip service. It was odd that like some Vaudeville performer of yore when found off-stage he treated me with a certain silent unspoken respect. An essential to his act that as it seemed to garner the affection of each audience he would not deign to tamper with or defame. The lesson that time and a variety of extraordinary experiences soon providing was that the human race as a single species was indeed a strange animal. And like any other animal in an unsure and chaotic universe had to be unscrupulously tamed and kept under tight control lest it eventually lead to the demise of it’s master.
Lost on the rough roads of a cartoon forest. Bumping along roads my old luxury sedan was at jeopardy of failing at. Large gray paper mache color pits in intersections to be avoided. Resolved to be brave if the end was to come. I bumped, bumped bumped over verdant shoulders past tall straight trees possible only in the imagination to avoid these traps. All this travel through strange enigmatic territory to enact an internecine rivalry in a wooded glen at a ridiculously short distance plunking Glock ammunition back and forth. Two against one. Plink, plink, plink upon respective barriers that both parties had to stay crouched behind. Why? What was the purpose of this battle? Some minor point of meddling angst or petty aggravation to be settled in a grievous wound that neither of us wanted. The foolishness of it descending upon us after the offers of chivalry in periods of reload aloud for time away from each of our barriers. The ammunition of each of our small arms cannonade growing short in supply. A newly found felicity built on the realization that mercurial bouts of futile exhaustion makes the best of friends after all.
On, after all, I have supped the broth of futility so often. Come up dry in a desert of my own making that should have been a glen. No why’s or wherefores to explain that well-incarcerated desire to simply destroy myself and get the whole damn thing over with poste haste. The dust of the ages fuzz accumulated in my navel. Ceaseless pleasures forlorn for the sake of a constant and long enforced love of solitude. The world absolutely perfectly the way that I want it. Ego maniacal franchises that have no endings. No time outs. The world is awash with television Socialism of false Utopias of simulated universes where paradise has no conclusion only stay tuned next week’s. How in the Hell of one’s own created eternal fire could one succeed in such a place without the descent of perpetual ennuii? Plnik, plink, plink! The shooting contest continues again. The ring of copper and lead on steel failing to lead to produce a mixture of bronze. De-evolusion to a state of perpetuity shooting at the shadow of one’s self. An effigy taken from times past. A straw man. A wicker man. Set afire with old unsatisfied dreams struggling for continued life within.
Each time I rise I find myself back in this same darkness wandering and wondering about an all too familiar space so high above the pavement. Mount Olympus my prison cell. The proferred trade of tat without tit. A mental chess extravaganza with my own failed impatience. I have become naught. Some old husk shocked forth by the winnow. This game of shadows past ever present in a tiresome lexicon of well-determined defenses against that which is desired so deeply. Hamlet’s rant! Killer bee magical conclusions of hive like propositions promising results through constant stings of inconsequential results. Sequestered in this chair stairing at a lighted screen. The sounds of the mand-made mechanical universe deverting me from my calling with the stars. Porpoise play in the eternal celestial dust of immense gaseous nebulas. I lay back and drift but encounter a wall. The inner dimensions of this rectangular manmade configuration that I will not leave. Horse in the burning barn. Too tired to think. Bump, bump, bump! The neighbors next door threaten my sleep. I am done for! Good night.