In the quagmirey part of town

[Sepia]

The world will crown itself the idiot king, the blind tyrant waiting for Odin to find a way through the forests of bloated memories, passing by Baba Yaga and her house on chicken legs. They will walk for years through the desolate parts of the world, where no mortal has tread, where the grass is made of hope and the sky of despair, the world that converges with ours, where reality meets emotion, where reality meets intuition but never the intellect, the rationality nor the logic.

The ecosystem is failing. Pieces of ice the size of Jamaica are freeing themselves from the southern ice in the name of entropy. Most of the garbage we have left above our atmosphere are dead bananaflies, chimps and dogs. The world is ending in 2012 and we can't get our hands on some decent koolaid. Afghanistan would be a worse place if it wasn't for opium.

I have two buttons. On one it says I believe in Harvey Dent and the other says Take me to Jonestown. I do not know which one to wear, I do not know which one represents my emotions in the best way. I live on emotions now, I live on intuition, I have rejected the ideals of rational thought and I reject every teaching I do not find myself. I have become a solipsist of sorts but instead of believing you to be figments of my imagination, I don't. I don't care about the signal to noise ratio for among you I could seek and search for something of meaning but I'd never find it, I'd never discover it until years after I began because there's so many of you, so many corpses to sift through because every street and every place is Jonestown.

We will huddle in our deathbeds, we will seek out the warmth of our brethren and we will do with love like we did in life, plunge at someone that is atleast anyone and we will live this shallow life as we think it won't get better, we're on the top of the pops, us. Life could only get shittier, atleast we still have our health and as those among us drink the koolaid we think, atleast we have more health than them. They, our aspirations, the men and women we look down on, in our minds, prejudice deems them unworthy but we love them. In our fashion, we love them. We remember the days of war and the nights of love as we hear the crickets and the sun seems like an orange, bathing us in what used to be a holy radiance but the sun is broken now, we don't see it from where we lie in our bunks and beds

thinking of Eliots Wasteland

[Murmur]