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.
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.