Apropos of this enervating, execrable moment that is all there is and is as good as as it might get (terrible food, and such small portions)

We don’t have to struggle or strive for reality to keep happening, for sensations to keep arising and washing over us, for thoughts welcome and unwelcome to keep arriving unbidden. That reality happens, that sensations arise and then dissipate, and that thoughts arrive are realized and then go wherever abandoned thoughts go - it is not so much automatic as indwelling.

Against this soft pettable insight I have a history of being enamored with fiction that is not sci-fi dystopia but more like inner life malignancy dystopia. And, like two snails racing across a small British lawn under a gray sky pregnant with rain, i feel the insight and the personal history strain to gain purchase, to win a race that can’t be won. There but for the glory and the indifference of a fictitious God, go I.

---