“When the prophets of strange religions ball out their bizarre despair do not join them on the mountain say only it is here it is here. Break your bones to mend your soul, die trying, a constellation of unabsolved fury a dichotomy of distress. Born of rage. Forced into narrower and narrower avenues of existence not by other but by self, is this who I really am?”
Zarathustra retires to his mountain cave, and several years pass by. One night, he dreams that he looks into a mirror and sees the face of a devil instead of his own; he takes this as a sign that his doctrines are being distorted by his enemies, and joyfully descends the mountain to recover his lost disciples.
When the prophets of strange religions ball out their bizarre despair do not join them on the mountain say only it is here it is here.
Note 333 alone here, where the world ends waiting, lying on my back, staring at the sky, purple dried flowers, in an old mason jar the record player still…
We sat in our cars gazing through the windshield at autumn foliage. Trans-fat. Death by trans-fat…
The days of indulgence and pleasure, the rain, the autumn, and the boogie woogie man. Six repeating sevens... An aged warrior…
…Can you recall the fall, when angels wept, for they could not destroy man but destruction, not being there, in, but instead, the longing for the love, of the God of Abraham, just keeps listening.
…The tilt of the earth, the distance from the sun, small mathematical calculations producing endless variety in a seemingly random outcome. The daydream of the self-grandiose. The world ended a long time ago. It's just waiting for you to realize it and then poof.
Make her talk to you and you listen…
curtains calling desperado, whiskey dying, i’m on fire…
my day Saturday…
Patiently waiting, the sound of a distant train, car driving by slowly, memories of the Ferris Wheel that night at the carnival a million years ago…
Drove all night, woke at dawn, billion-year-old stardust seeping through the cracks in the windshield. Refracting in every direction falling across the coffee-stained upholstery. Detroit a thing of the past…
Where the state ends—look there, my brothers! Do you not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the Superman?” And Zarathustra looked at his disciples, and he wept bitterly. Then he spoke thus: "Disobedience — that is the nobility of slaves. Let the Supermen speak the word that will consume them!”
The man who shuns solitude as a morbid tendency, like an unhealthy plant which thrives only in crowds, is not properly social, but scarcely deserves the name of sociable. He is merely gregarious, and is more likely to be a burden to society than a benefit.
do you want to be part of a world of sleeping people?
Do you want to imbibe the drug ov the commonplace?
