if it don’t thrill me…

Someone I used to know played Steve Miller’s “Quicksilver Girl” over and over in a dream I had. I’m still in the dark regarding this person, the kind of fog that takes hold after the various scents and fires have been lit and dried. Songs change on the stereo, people fade away into whatever the fuck else there is to disappear in to. No amount of webbing can satisfy the struggle for movement against a background swelling and swaying when the wind blows. Such dissension in the ranks. With as much use as a pre-smoked cigarette, the whole mess is usually saved for the moments between events when curiosity overwhelms the senses. I am not a sentimental kid. I like it easy; taking what comes and spitting out the stuff I don’t like.

The constriction of meaning seems totally imposed. Get comfortable with the idea that you don’t know anymore now than you will later, or even in the past. I can see the difference between constance and constant, the basic rub of the whole cult of definition. They are the nounists; everything has a term to describe exactly what it is; end of story. This mindset works best in formulaic creationalism. Who knows why? The best guess I have is structural. The defect of the theorists is not in their brilliance and expectations, but rather the premise of grouping and like minded synthesis. A fancy fucking term that sounds dirty on your tongue. Nobody can resist the temptation. How does a wise and kindred spirit amalgamate power? Coopting the frontier. Normality becomes a function of time.

No time for staring blankly out across the room. The window shades are drawn, the kind of malicious daily routine that serves a purpose that can’t be seen. Everything pushed on the current until arriving at the appointed time. Mendacity at its finest.

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