down and back
going back to the place I left a decade ago
driving alone, three hours, detoured and I’m going to be late
petty aggravations from work bubble in my head
drastic solutions, I’ll quit and close myself off to all of it.
Heading back, sun is setting, window down, 75 miles per hour
wind numbs my arm, every song that comes on is perfect
pastel late spring dusk that lasts for hours
my soul is light and I love everything and everyone
Mom. Mommy. Mommy, where are you mommy?
He had, of course, long ago stopped thinking of himself as real.
Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
Truth is greatly overrated, volition where it exists must be protected, wanting itself can be obliterated, some people have forgotten how to want.
Wittgenstein was I think wrong when he said that about that which we do not know, we should not speak. He closed by fiat a great amusement park, there. Nothing gives me more pleasure than speaking about that which I do not know.
