Cold Missiles the Wind Sends

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief.

"Dejection: An Ode"

A life like manga: read backwards. Like an ice cream cone in the hand of a careless child: running, dribbling, gathering fuzz and trash commonly called "experience." And always so tired, and so tiresome. To whom are we most overfamiliar? Ourselves, of course. I doubt I'd ever speak to that person in the mirror if I'd never seen him. (Narcissus never did anyone any favors.)

Thus and so the prattling transcript of a mind. If only I could speak at the speed of thought, what universes would swallow C.!

Something is strangled in the relay, though; my mouth gets stifled around clots of notions until the cuticle of frustration around every bone and vein contracts, pressing best-forgotten memories into an effigy of me—the me that stands for me.

Let me let you in on a secret: I seek blessedness, though blessedness of a certain sort. I seek one with the integrity to know when she has ceased to be human, and has instead, less than an animal—dumb to itself, yet wiser for it—been fetched from abstractions and become mere orgone and organs, a wet vessel of pulsions, like some snapdragon sagging, heavy with will. Then I will know the pure gospel of bones: they're always ready after one's demise to serve as handles for pairing knives.

Prodigious relief, then sleep.

Finally: finality.