The 17th Today 2003 – Close Enoughsville, Burgundy Terrace

(found torn into shreds and pieced together in such a way to make it appear in such a way as to allow one to read it or misread it as necessary)

You All-Singing and All-Dancing Crap,

What now? Where? Is this what the world has come to? Is this the apex and pinnacle of imagined progress?

Didn’t you have a moment, ever – I mean, haven’t you ever had a moment where you let the world exist around you? Have you ever not maintained the superiority of ego? Have you ever allowed life to live and not just yourself to exist within it?

What, truly, are we doing? Have we killed sincerity so convincingly? Have we any options other than sneering over glass screens while leaning in forced-suaveness against bathroom doors or gyrating like epileptic, rabid dogs in an elaborately-conscious ritual attempting to divorce oneself from one’s own ego?

What happened to trees? What happened to sweet air? What happened to the feeling of floating one once had while walking along the breezy bank of a forested stream?

What tragedy. What trumped-up costumery our faces have become. No wonder we all demand annihilation with such ardor and venom.

I dream of yellow fields dotted with log cabins. I dream of making pizza in a brick oven with a long-lost love while a record player plays records. I dream and dream and hope my eyes never open ever again.

Yet I am here. In the haze and the smoke and the beat of the drum and the applause and song and half-closed eyes.

Weren’t we supposedly delivered from this nonsense, both the insincerity of hollow, self-aggrandizing performance and the insincerity of cowardly, self-congratulatory observation? Is there a self that isn’t constructed? Is there a being that is ever allowed to actually be?

What is true existence?

Well, I’ll tell you, it isn’t this. It is none of this.

I am confused.



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