All minds pulse in a unique way, just as every lighthouse in the world has a unique signature. Some minds pulse consistently, some erratically. Some are lukewarm, some are hot. Some flare out, some are very nearly not there. Some stay on the fringe, like quasars.
You vowed never to trust any fabricant. You knew that Abolitionism was as dangerous and insidious a dogma as Unionism. You supported the resultant Homeland Laws dictated by the Beloved Chairman, wholeheartedly.
Be that as it may, future ages will still be corpocratic ones. Corpocracy isn’t just another political system that will come and go – corpocracy is the natural order, in harmony with human nature.
The lounge is empty of bodies but full of debris: wineglasses, ashtrays, food wrappers, and a pair of silk boxer shorts over the Boer War rifle.
Who wins, you or the sony?” The sony, I answered, or how would I ever improve? So winners, Hae-Joo proposed, are the real losers because they learn nothing? What, then, are losers? Winners?
Even as I write, my former premises are being turned into a Hard Rock Cafe for homesick Americans.
Echoes of Scriabin’s White Mass, Stravinsky’s lost footprints, chromatics of the more lunar Debussy, but truth is I don’t know where it came from.
I’d always worried but kissing’s not so tricky. Your lips know what to do, just like sea anemones know what to do.
Despair is as attractive as cold sores.
Time cannot permeate this sabbatical. We do not stay dead long. Once my Luger lets me go, my birth, next time around, will be upon me in a heartbeat. Thirteen years from now we’ll meet again at Gresham, ten years later I’ll be back in this same room, holding this same gun, composing this same letter, my resolution as perfect as my many-headed sextet.
Holly slides off the chairlift like a gymnast, and I slide off like a sack of hammers.
This time I whisper it, at about the violin’s volume: “I love you.” No one hears, no one sees, but the tree falls in the forest just the same.
Glossy black waters invited me to jump.
All the woe of the words ‘I am’ seemed dissolved there, painlessly, peacefully.
Normal is whatever you have come to take for granted.
Music leaks out of the Walkman, and a saxophone from long ago circles in the air, so sad it could barely leave the ground.
Writing novels worth reading will bugger up your mind, jeopardize your relationships, and distend your life.
Belief is both prize and battlefield, within the mind and in the mind’s mirror, the world. If we believe humanity is a ladder of tribes, a colosseum of confrontation, exploitation, and bestiality, such a humanity is surely brought into being.
Crows tumble like socks in a drier.
What happens to all the seconds tipped into the bin of the past?