What is this world into which I stumble every morning? Head over phallus, an adult newborn each morning, with every gloomy dawn of grey clouds, and silence, with intimations of whispering cars and muffled birdsong. Who are these people on all sides with words of their invention, with ideas that spring forth like jack-in-the-boxes from their random heads, wearing smiles and frowns and scowls so grey and serious? Why do they weave their paths so, these complicated tangles of trajectories left to melt in the snow, a puzzle never to be interpreted by any archaeologist? Why dance, why sing, why grumble about the weather? Why read, why write, why contemplate your sad reflection in the mirror? Such confusion! Such malarkey! Such a proliferation of monarchies; private domains, with private languages, with private deluxe ensuites with their very own love entanglements! Inclusive! So many latrines! So many vanities! So many wandering sexual organs! And billions upon billions of leaves, about to fall from trees, and rot in piles in corners and nooks.
Is there no silence beyond all this? If I sit quietly enough can I see through all these disorderly ids, this tangle of motion? Where is there room to stand in this cocktail party? Does eternity await with the next hors’d’oeuvre?
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