Thursday, July 14, 2011
They tell me to write a book, but my question is: "What if it's all in vain & our brain is in a vat, a liquid prison, a cruel aquarium?" If so, then why even talk to your Muse anymore, she is only violet smoke rising in a double helix pattern, an incomprehensible ring of Saturn, the chaos incarnate that crashes your brain. Still finding my voice, as if it were somewhere rambling at depths unknown to human scientific, prying eyes & ears, & this golden voice just so happens to be occupying the same space as my reeling mind. Think concrete & think of your origins in the cosmos, this is the part where your train of thought disintegrates on the Big City horizon, with the bridge off down in the lowlands, these modern structures, the proof of Human Kind's stacking madness. At a desk in the tallest skyscraper in the Universe, Gutenberg whimpers into a waste basket filled with crumpled up pieces of paper, the words inked on the pages too obscene for the general public's wild imaginations. Too wild for the general public's obscene imaginations. Flipping a lid. Can you dig it? Sketch #1 @ desk I just situated in these living quarters. Hasta pronto!