Fuga Mortis

This is the documentation of a mad man; such as it may be, prose in the form of invariably dextrous poetry that quickly bends the knee to feigned night-time visions of a higher calling. Rhythm as non-rhythm, and the fearful procession of words into spiritual legislation accompanied by the frenzied clacking of beardless man-children avoiding social interactions via the very same outlets that have formed for them a dependency. What could be mangled by run-on fortitude was nixed by the logical extermination that preceded its existence, and the world as will and representation presented the subjective with a categorical imperative to cease and desist all fearful functioning.

Pompous pubescent pillagers of responsibility hinder the sanctity of my LCD screens with 4 by 4 cut-outs of nights spent languishing in the delirious scenes of party schemes. While paltry seems the bitterness of the lone witness, in truth the rotten core that resides in his center of balance is dissatisfaction at an inability to grasp an internal truth; that morbidity and banality have rendered him incapable of conveying artistic integrity.

Everywhere the various tentacles of stimulation beckon and hearken with the babel allure of knowing something of everything and nothing thoroughly. It can be considered a venereal disease of our collected mentalities that pervasive in our culture is a sense of entitlement and a widespread whining about our lack of pruning. Take up the mantle for yourselves and these obstacles would prove nothing more than chimeras, whereas now they appear solid at a distance and your resolve purees in the juice of diffidence.

This is an interlude between paragraphs to remind the reader that Woody Allen's movies always feature a man betrayed by some haughty female, and that the correlation between Sir Allen's monstrous personal life and his archetypal fear of powerful Venuses is no coincidence but rather completely causal.

I've relapsed quickly and almost immediately, both literally in the sense of absorbing cup after cup of maple redolence and coffee beans, and methodically, relying on the effervescent effect of aurally rhymed 'e's and other schemes to facilitate the now scant blithering of pages colonoscopy.

Permanent mental impairment rings loudly yet the heart boasts proudly, fixating my psychology on the terminology of cognitive dissonance. No longer thrust between the primal rock and hard place, we lace the excitement of our times in a border of nicotine packaging and caffeine-based epistemology. Maybe Freud had a thing for his mother, and subsequently the putative passing of man has been a tale of sneaking peeks at maternal shower scenes and plugging lacy undergarments with spilled seed.

Onan's sin is mine alone, yet the will-to-live belongs to all. We share our disgraces, our times of glory, each hard-won triumph, and acrimonious defeat, just as we share the ennui of intermittent weeks. Death, then, is not a passing into nonexistence, but rather a rebounding into the holistic presence of shared reminiscences that constitutes the analogous aeons before birth.

Let us return to the womb of time with the glint of our inner-beings, so that we may be thrust across the Universe in sparking metals and elements unbound. Save your faith and theology, our breath is better spent inhaling virtuous art and exhaling our own truths into the spittoon of yarn-woven delusions.