the search for or commitment to comfort, pleasure, happiness, as every sage has known, is inane, leading slowly to destruction and misery. if we are flesh, these are only moods among a thousand moods; and if we be machines, emotionality is a curious legacy from a prehistoric and barbaric age.
if i think, if i feel, to any degree worthy of the world, i am – without searching, without committing – pain and in gaining this worthy degree possibly avoid destruction through becoming it, thus abdicating the need to actualize it. for we are an immensely destructive race and if we would fulfill ourselves we would find means to use our rage in new and curious ways.
and i see the heads of the human used as lottery balls, rolling down funscapes of our games to show the winning number. what beauty is in waste, what democracy in desecration.
as some write their confessions of opium or hashish, so i write the confessions of my addiction, this hallucinogen – life, which knows no up or down, right or wrong, beauty or ugliness, and to which i am inescapably drugged as soon as i say i. these are my experiences of my addiction in the langwich of that addiction and not any rehabilitated – that is, diluted – langwich, what you call prose or reason.
and i see the heads of humans in boxes of breakfast cereal, poured and wetted for the hunger of our children.
i have seen the future as swans climbing kilometres of human towers and singing their scatological ecstasy to brainless clouds.
the only time to tell is the time we don’t.
today has been a day to not spell time, but only enter the ballroom of days and see time on its deathbed dancing.
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