I am so sick to death of everything that I think of to say, that all I can come up with is this stupid diatribe. I ask the guiding entities what the fuck I should do, what should I write—or at least what should I write about. And there is silence. They do that well, the guiding entities; you probably don’t even know they exist they do it so well. But I have this stupid website, and what is one to do with a stupid website but fill it with stupid blither and infantile bellowing. So here we are.
I wonder why I do not have any interesting links to code-up for your viewing pleasure. You know, like those fascinating links to really quite delightful sites which seem to only be discovered by the most intelligent and smooth-skinned, emotionally well-balanced young boy- and girl-geeks. They’re cool people, and human and witty and droll and ever ebullient within a bemusedly subdued exterior, and they have lives and they go to school and to work and they go from day to day as if everything is somewhere else and they are on their way. Impossible for me to immitate.
Some kind people seem able, on occasion, to identify something here of marginal value, some sort of decent or comendable quality which I, quite honestly, am at a loss to recognize. But I like it when others see it, so I keep bumbling along, reciting doggerel and hoping to produce again by some clumsy accidental alchemy a bit of wisdom or truth in bright and gleaming gold—maybe platinum.
And maybe I am just distraught. It is a cold, dark night, with a crystal-clear black starlit sky, a moonless void, a vast impenetrable vacancy on what is for now the dark side of the earth.
The memories acquired earliest in life are the most fond to us. The feelings and emotions most familiar to us from our first experiences are dearest to us, and when they return they have greater access to our hearts than all the rest. I have the blessing (or the curse) of just such an affinity for tragedy. It touches me more deeply than any joy ever could; I am never so alive as when confronting anihilation and disaster. No pleasantness, nor mild ecstasy, no sublime comfort nor trembling shaking orgasm can do as much to connect me to the juice of life. To witness the extinguishment from this world of Imagine, for Willie McCool.’,CAPTION,’RealPlayer clip’);” onMouseout=”return nd();”>a little bit of hope eternal is, for me, to know beyond knowing—it is to understand without any question or doubt what truly matters.
This is dull to you. Disinteresting. Predictable and obvious. On a cosmic scale, emptied of time, nothing really matters, so why should this? And it doesn’t.