I feel every day is a new world, shredded by a black hole, and does it even notice? The next day I’m the black hole, a bit stronger maybe somehow. Here are the blessings of brokenness. Christ. Zen. The beginning is the end.
Whatever, words are maps and not the places we live. GPS may say turn but there’s a wall it didn’t mention, intentionally or not and you find out soon enough unless you keep your head up. Look all around and what amazes and confounds you is the mystery you wish to solve.
So boil away the fat, separate the chaff, the flesh, the seed, the beast with two backs, the dirty deed. A social contract consent form must be notarized and faxed. What are you grateful for? What do you give back to the person who gave to you, or is the world a thing which serves?
What is it we allow, and what are we allowed? Who are we and what is now?
Is this a game in a patronizing tone?
Is this the way to build a home?
So let’s suppose we exist in words. But words don’t exist. Behavior is complex physics, there’s no such thing as luck. So why not fuck and feast and lie and retreat from every heart, alone in the high castle, atop the ivory tower, upon the iron throne?
In the midst of alchemy, distilling the essences of what words mean to me, whence your work is disturbed by the sound of horns, and you send the boiling oil, the flaming arrows and trebuchet, and all the swords you own over the fence down there into the vermin hoard, peasants, burn their homes if you’re bored! Those poor hungry creatures you’ve ignored, why not share, before it’s not yours to share anymore, before it’s pried from your cold, dead hand. I always win, she said. The mage replied, maybe you have.