Nebulize time. Nebulize tanks and tidal waves. Nebulize future.
Tomorrow is tomorrow so swaddle anxiety. Swaddle the sheer terror of before and after nothingness. Punch Oscar Wilde in the face and thank him profusely.
Always contradict. Always fight tedium. Always fight inflexibility of age. Fight to transform. To lose self again and again. To gain self again and again. To strip away vanities. To shift. To shuffle. To take off your shirt. To scalp yourself. To sit long awake through long, porous, featureless night.
Dreams insist. Time relaxes the trapezius. Every body sleeps.
But to summon that effervescent wisp. That glorious ghost. That zebra-striped, cunt-like hider. That drunken delicacy. That gingered fresh. Friend of the lonely. Friend of the fractured. Friend of the half-filled seeker. In abortion of efficiency. In vomit of routine. Upon a meandered, half-fish-brain float forward to Tahiti and beyond. To the hidden hive. To the fizzing, rhythmic cave.
Take to the non-solid brinks and the art-grown degenerate cities of the uncaged. Take to the burning, moneyless catacombs of eternal joy and people. Take to the poles and the cratered dark sides – secretly colonized, secretly self-sufficient, secretly happy. Take to the release. Take to the discharge, to squid-inkish liberation from the game, from the prayer, from the hunt, from the moribund malarkey of moon-baked us.
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