what is important. morning sun. friends. health. peace. and when these run out, and Job’s curses start to fill the head, there is always a way to go.
I loved the desert, dried orchards, faded shops and tepid drinks. I dragged myself through stinking alleys and, eyes closed, I gave myself to the sun, God of fire. “General, if on your ruined ramparts an old cannon remains, bombard us with lumps of mud. — On the mirrors of magnificent shops! in drawing-rooms! Make the city eat its dust. Oxidize the water-spouts. Fill boudoirs with the burning powder of rubies… — Rimbaud
Yeah, well, I couldn’t resist this tortured nail-scrape across the board, shivering me awake, but only for the time of reading it. all evaporated the moment the mulling of the words crossed the thresh-kjeld, leaving crushed corns for rising bread; mind-brain, this complex of meat behind the eye. it showed me that Words, for all they are, are nothing. would rather shout in tongues I have no dream about. carve a language that DOES SOME GOOD, rather than lead us closer to just another hell of being. nah. not so bad. life is good, no hell now. the plans the plans the plans. mapping the control of the future. we are falling forward into it anyway, just fall and feel the accelerating gravity rather than brake and feel only the velocity.