"we are all only temporary curators of our present bodies, which will all decay, sooner or later." Peter Christopherson
in the Back of Beyond
115
i thought the end of words would be relieving. i thought the end of words would be nihilism's dew. but it doesn't make it any lighter. tonight it rather saddens me really. there are these noises that i hear outside, every now and then. like thunderclaps or debris being moved. it should be bombs, you know. no voices no alarms no fireworks no footsteps no bloody motorpipes. bombs. it rains so much this winter. it's absurd. the human condition is impaired and inadequate. though insomnia in its familiarity is my time of utmost lucidity, now days it is only in hypnagogia when precise eloquence flashes before my eyes. or when i do the dishes, sometimes.
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