December 27, 2003

  • To write as if there is nothing else.  To be driven by the next word to meet the page.  To scribble madly and never look back.


     


    There is nothing else.  Not even the drugs that got me here.  Not even the signs that say “Beware”.  Not even the reader who will never care.


    Damn optimists we are.  Always imagining there will be something else, another moment, an opportunity to flip the page forward…or back.


    There are spots on the surface, and holes in the corona, and flares constantly flinging. Yet we never dare doubt that the sun will rise in the east again.


    Would I bet against it?  Hell, no.  Because if I won, how to ever collect?  That’s the safe thing about gambling: the real dares are exempt.


    Go to sleep, my baby.  Go to sleep, my baby.  Go to sleep, my baby, my baby go to sleep.


    “Of that which one cannot speak, one should consign to silence.”  That’s from the Tractactus Logico-Philosophicus of Wittgenstein.  Not only cowardly, it’s bullshit.


    Do you want to be a ghost when you croak?  I’ve designed a kit.  You open it and swallow the pill inside. You die. You become the ghost of an opossum.  You feign sleep six feet under for the rest of time.


    They say the world will end with a whimper.  But I roam and run in the night with eyes that could terrorize terror itself, seeking a glimpse of auroras that afterburn and leave a twinkle in the sky.


    Today is a good day to die.

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