Aug. 18th, 2014

The World trembles to my sleep silent footsteps. I am shaped like ten thousand heartbeats. You see me in arrhythmic patterns: all your eyes turned to static, all your voices unborn, all your fancy romances all your stubborn forlorn-little faces ground down to pixel perfect
errors
Not in judgment but
discretion.

What am I?

The cognitive dissonance under your bed. The nihilist in your birthday cake. The jeers of your fictional detractors- those imagined enemies whose existence would so validate your self loathing which is, let's face it, the best possible outcome at this point since at least then you'd exist.

And it's pretty. So pretty you see and that brings one a long way in Māyā, in San Francisco and St. Paul or even in Port Richey, Florida, Port Richey where everyone is poor... Even the rich used to be poor, there(there), and it clings to them follows precedes stinking in that way of things, expensive things, things made to look cheap exude cheap classless(low and mean, crass, banal) on purpose. And this, this! A poverty not material but endemic to the human condition. A poverty not spiritual but similarly afflicted with our lack of vision, our stunted imaginations, our deadly little games of limited debate(our peacock displays- and don't we strut... don't we just), this poverty that no amount of currency can alleviate, since, you know, of course of course that currency inevitably creates poverty. That money is a tool for resource extraction(yes, my precious).

Pushing rocks up hills and enjoying the fuck out of it, this, this! Ecstatic banality! This is the heaven they dream of, your sacred souls, your miracle army of selves! They peer behind veils and see only mirrors. A universe of twins pressed face to face, tumbling in comatrance through lightless light.

It has been bottled. Packaged as perfume, refreshing beverage, personal lubricant, antidepressant, shamanic totem, sleeping aid. The Nectar of Endings. The hedonistic revelling in existential futility as highest achievement, sainthood, the immanence of ecstasy as fad diet.
Truth in Advertising.
"Welcome to the World," said the World.
"Welcome to the Beast," said the Beast.

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