And, another.

As the Grubby Fingers Dip Through the Breadbasket, the World Waits in Baited Breath - Eulogy Part 2

One time there was a time where the 

only thing that mattered were the who's what's and 

what's who's and vice versa and versa vice. 

One time.

I was playing in a stream once as a child, in what

nodoubtedly would be considered a made-up memory

that cleaves, with force, onto the unsuspecting mind 

when the weird folk music starts up in full blast, watching

the ones that seem so happy in an unkind, belittled, unfair, 

falsified environment that is created by itself, and all I can 

dream about is eating fast, cheap, shitty shit that's fried in 

the depths of a hell of hilarity - utterly self-imposed, and 

utterly self-serving. 

The only thing left to hate is yourself. 

Told through broken britches that I've been taught to hate,

spoken through imaginary whispers that could have only

been the most cunning of lies, rapture comes for us all eventually

with an open mind and even more open body. It's only ever as

evident as you say it is, but evolves like everything else - into a 

puddle of nothingness like it was always supposed to be. 

No harm, no foul - that's what I was always taught too; in-between

gleaming windows that made me feel like I should be outside, wooden

boards connecting the barely existing dots that tie together the fragments 

of memory deemed important enough to keep and hold near and dear, the things 

that teach us who and what and how we make the infinite mistake. 

Selfishness is always the easy, obvious, clearly accessible/understandable/comprehendible 

way out for the uninitiated - but I'd like to invite you, dear reader, alongside on an

alternate path of sublimely sentimental regret; we all know what we're guilty of, and it

should be remembered in the best of ways - rather than the worst.

Everyone always seems to want people to tell them what they're doing wrong, but 

once what's been said has been said, all that remains is a bitter anger at the sheer nerve - 

asked for and granted - of raw honesty. Walks are harder to walk when the talk directs

every other which way in a collective state of reckless flux we couldn't possibly get 

enough of - and never will. All there is to do is push, push, push - ever so gently, at the 

light from inside the doorway. There's only one thing stopping - and Lord knows it's

not me.

Circular

Quiet - it comes.

Silent - it goes.

In between there happens things that none 

may ever know.

Words that echo through a cranium too jam-packed with

bullshit to have space for much else, but the least one can

do is try.

Too many people spewing their brains out for the world to

wonder at, too many brains spewing their knowledge out for the 

universe to laugh at, but you already know all of this already - don't you?

The ever-conscientious, ever-ready, ideal of an individual not yet recognized 

(by choice, of course) fully prepared to salvage the last quavering droplet of 

humanity that hangs down by the drainage grate like a string of spittle that

knows no master besides the inevitable gravity - that I guess, supposedly, 

exists whether we like it or not; it's all the funniest game in the world and 

we are always searching for more players.