ghosts and gods and songs you can’t sing along to are the friends of those who work in graves. we love the exiled and the dead – not because they’re any better than the societal and living but because we love exile and death. the flowers we enjoy smelling grow in these desolations. who can say why one has the tastes one has!
i like bathing in cheese. cheese made from deliquescent tits of human bovines. raised organically, free range, aged. we’ve hardly begun to realize humanity’s use.
today – you kings and commoners chained by facticity – this is what i did: i woke up with an egg in my ass and the egg was my cat and my cat the world and i scrambled the world and ate my cat and the impossible origins of things was in me. you who don’t have ears, let you not hear.
whilst chatting it up with some chubby and flirty baristas in an indie café in the doppelganger of barcelona, four weird sisters came through the glass and said, when you die you shall be changed into an environment of your choosing – desert or jungle or meadow or forest or ocean – and you shall be this environment forever, without end and without end. what is your choice?
since this is my diary, representing truthfully and faithfully the events that conspire in my life, and since diaries – which every diary-writer knows – develop souls of their own after a time and often even flesh around them and consume those who write them, i would like to say, i am not yet consumed. and yet i feel myself being gnawed.
that gnawed and nod are homonyms is our meditation for the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment