Which reason is so epic and cosmological that it begins to retreat into the obscure, the downright abstruse: that cosmic aloneness is the bride of existence, okay, but do the design choices of your hotel room have to be so hellishly hotelish?
Meanwhile… Somewhere in the Caucasus, in the 11th century…
Quit Facebook. Eliminate Instagram. Systematically remove your presence from the blogosphere. Say hell no to the NFL. Foreswear Twitter forever and ever. Deny the New York Times.
The subtle deviation of mere seconds of arc in your flight logistics will, over the years, cause you to arrive in a vastly different quadrant of the galaxy than you had originally plotted for.
You have to keep rowing and when you think you can’t row anymore is not even half way thru how much more rowing you have to do—and for what? Is it really because of three-too-many whiskeys? The sky overhead shudders and sobs. Pay no attention to the lights in the deep.
Which will be particularly devastating when walking to the podium at the poetry event of the year you’ll trip over not even a real leg but an imaginary one…
Some bats are metaphorical, having metaphorical lice, symbolic rabies, and other unknown pathogens of irony—they are my preferred bat. But the bats in your area are all rather amorous.
The ordered swirl of houses and streets, from this high angle’ll spring at you now with the same unexpected, astonishing clarity as the circuit card had.
Never stopping reading until security finally forces the door and removes you from the premises.