unpleasant vestiges of your past have a promiscuous way of aimlessly appearing along the living track of your waking life.

cold realtime signs of times when life's living left to love's languid disregard transforms a meaningful memory into an antiquated lesson.

one could chose to hurt or hate or plot or fear or cry or fail to be, but this familiar litany is tired.

in such tiredness one finds the illuminatingly calm dispassion of detached observance.

seeing, hearing, feeling, crying, talking, being, are all subjective secrets of our unprovable existing. existing as ourselves, admitting that this could all be an illusion, empty and devoid of tangible meaning.

but then knowing, screaming, placing, fundamentally feeling that unmistakable dopemine rush of understanding: that there is not completely nothing.

to scream from tired tops of borish buildings in seedy montreal jibtek squats, to scream that the illusion is the something more than nothing that means that nothing is not everything.

to scream yourself out, embedding and corelating in endlessly playful convolutions in order to idly bide by the absurdist call to arms, and legs, childish remarks meant to flaunt and flail in purposeful disregard.

to not try or be or fail to be.

not to do, not to do-not, not to listen to little green men from degobah, those fuckers never tell you the whole truth anyway.

if you ever get in touch with time, tell him i want him to settle the debt.