Which is why you should probably upgrade your iPhone to a dog and move into a yurt in the woods of northern Minnesota to live a simple bucolic life off the grid, one devoid of all pop figurations and technological ecstasy, out there beyond the simulation.
Your insistence to dress in drag to Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar And Grill may not prove as contrary as you might wish. “Say there lil lady,” some fat honky will say, releasing equal parts stinky Old Spice and a kind of Mich Golden Lite mist all over your face.
Beauty and truth are waiting in California but they are not going to wait very long. Meanwhile the mystical emanations that’ll be shining from certain words’ll be shining brighter than ten thousand stars: Daimonic, Lana Del Rey, Vorstellung.
Astro-physics, though thrilling, is a zero-sum game: facts now will always become quaint fictions later on. Doubting that the stars are fire then isn’t so ridiculous.
America Vicuña hangs by her neck in the permanent shade of the carriage house behind the banana warehouse where no one has found her. What was the matter?
Every target acquires its own mythos. In this way the silent harpoon arcs to the whale.
While scuba diving later on this week be on the look out for fiery eye-contact from a long lost love. “WTF,” will be your initial response, down there in the cool blue reedy dark of the lagoon, startled to see another diver, let alone an ex-lover, emerge from a tower of coral to look you straight in the face-mask with equal surprise and shock.
Unfortunately, after you’ve booked passage on a frigate bound for southern waters in order to avoid what you’re dreading doing, the weather turns violent for days on end and finally the superstitious crew decide to toss you overboard into the roiling hillsides of a ridiculous sea.