Things come into purpose around me;
the present will continue forever, and even consume the past,
so that both are made of the same stuff,
and from the same desire:
to abandon the future.
Ah well, it wasn't much of a project anyway.
I'm seeing veins of crackling lightning,
and they slice obliquely through the corner of my vision.
Why is it easier to imagine a streaming ball of light eating up the darkness outside,
the gloomy lidded sky,
than a sizzle of gutless, tarry blackness melting away the day?
Why are the planes that fly overhead never alien spaceships?
Well, that's unfair.
They are alien spaceships, just made anodyne by indoctrination.
What would past humans think of metallic birds that carry little people in their beaks?
Probably not much.
Is someone out there rolling garbage cans down the unkempt side-street?
Is thunder whipping the earth?
In either case, I'm trying to enjoy myself without your distraction;
I can't even play music, because then I hear what I'm not hearing,
and I hear it saying,
"I'm the last of my kind, and you're my last hope, and this day is the last."
How do I respond?
Maybe I've been reanimated in this moment as a merciful concession--
I'm down there, in the hell-room.
Or maybe this room is the hell-room, the room that seems superficially bounded by my eyesight,
but is really more than that,
a metaphysical boundary,
the inability to guarantee the safety of my subjects,
into whose corpses I have stuffed unwilling consciousnesses.
I shudder at the phrasing.
Yet it rings true.
Like a bell! A Taco Barbell!
I feel my presence of mind in decay, atrophy the only constant, the stench of overlife the only reward.
I have to say something meaningful, I have to produce something—I think, if it were only valuable—no. Not quite.
And there it is.
I hate and I hate, but only for a moment,
and then I am free.
Memory is traitorous.
Something has to bring about its end,
and I know what.
- 8 toasts