I'm tired, but can't get to sleep.
'Something' is tired. I need a new fudge word.
Contacts are condoms of the eye.
I've abandoned all things good and turned wholly to atrophy.
Anxiety. Anxiety about age. Anxiety about time - that untimely concept, time. No one thinks about time - time thinks us up.
'We' is an amusing creature. We are free to choose. We are free to burn. 'We' is no more than me. We are free, but everywhere in chains.
Water, water, everywhere, nor a drop to drink - Samuel Calvin Coleridge.
Honorific horrors inhabit a collective psyche posing as zeitgeist.
Information, knowledge, everywhere, nor a drop to drink. Our filters are nominally on high alert, yet utter rubbish - hollow polemics, empty supplications, facile images, excess, verbosity - is hailed as knowledge, currency of enlightenment. Knowledge came to be commodity - owned, marketed, and sold - and ferocious haggling passes as debate. But isn't knowledge always elusive. Is it not ineffable, indissociable from essential ambiguities underlying existence itself?
I close my eyes. Still cannot sleep. I close my eyes to the disaster but something, someone within does not allow me to ignore it. I'm tired but cannot sleep. My drooped head - heavy with silent anxiety - lies still on my pillow, contemplating finality and its prophet, Hegel, cackling with mischievous delight at Jackass. On the screen, Johnny Knoxville holds Geist in his palm, stroking it, teasing it, preparing it for its trip off of the edge of abyss. All the world watches on with glee. Contacts are condoms of the eye.
Unaltered course. Finality. The viewing public no longer needs to read. We watch shit unfold. We watch trials. We watch sex tapes. We watch watches tick down second after arbitrary second. We watch banality, since we tire of living it.
Where the fuck is Johnny Knoxville with the weed? If he brings back a dimebag, Hegel's gonna go apeshit. Oh, wait, is this where she answers her cell in the dark?
Amazon. Rainforest. Save the forest. Save the whore. The world cannot redeem itself I 've been told. Humans are too flawed for the business of salvation. Look, they say, to the big fluorescent glowing sky for salivating salvation - available for the all time low price of ....
Closing eyes. Eyelids heavy. Still awake as silence pounds harder at my exasperated skull. Where the fuck is Hegel with the pizza? I thought he knew how to get there. Damn that nightvision crap is harshing my stiffy.
Moon. Half-moon casted over the land of harvest. The rising tides, the imperfect waves of ephemeral, passing time, stroke the land with sensuous languor. The strokes grow carnivorous and its all gone. There will be no harvest. It was pronounced in stone long ago in a faraway, far gone, today. Finality.
Sunk. We're sunk. All was lost and my chariot cruising without drive or care shattered the face of God. Shards rained down to hopeful rabble. Rubbish. They took the rubbish to be gold and worshiped reified fragments, installing unity and totality. And, of course, finality.
Closed my eyes. Sleep comes. The nightmare is no more.
