No one to witness and adjust, no one to drive the car, and because of that or despite that, we forget which, these pure products going crazy
Have I had occasion to tell how often I sit up in the middle of the night, with tears welled in my eyes from yawning, not from grief or sodden depression, and sleep remains well beyond my waking grasp? So I lay and stare in the dark, considering how incredible it all is, all the different real and phantom events that had to collide and jostle and integrate into this disjointed semblance of a stitched together life to reach this moment that defies legibility, and then plunge down into the grave depth of recognition that what Seneca would say is the shortness of life is just a series of dumb choices meant to put off living.
Like this insomnia right here in the now. Who knew Joan Miro was a man?
Of course it’s inevitable that I will tomorrow see someone in bathing suit rocketing down a five story waterside with a tattoo of amor fati emblazoned on a torso. Acres of flesh, boiling and reddened, and all kinds of effrontery, proof positive that what children deem fun is sometimes just a thing to be suffered through, but there may be encoded in the day a moment or two like that, which stand as a discrete time-symbol specifically held out to just the Me Myself, a true gift of a moment to decipher and be struck dumb by, like esoteric Straussian texts or the shifting currents of the Bosphorus running from Istanbul all the way, in time, to Constantinople.
