The Suburbs will not save us, nor the Harlots we made famous

"Nothing's ever been right"
and as I settle for the night,
the volume of the trees screaming
like the engorged howls of a prison fight

I'm convinced the world is going to end, have I mentioned that? And at some point I start to feel disconnected from these problems, already taking the attitude that the world has begun to collapse into some chaotic war fueled by resource rivalries and environmental havoc in turn perpetuated by the greed in all our hearts. And yet, it seems perhaps that's all fantasy; my dream of a time without manufactured obligations, without strict definitions, without anything to do but be myself and coalesce into survivalist tribes. Create mythologies from our dim memories.

I still think it will happen, but the psychology of it is becoming clearer. The great yawn of human history, apes descending from trees to White people nuking Persians is peopled by a vast anonymity, an immense silence and innumerable voids. Being alive in that moment, some sharp turning point in our story and evolution, brings some satisfaction. For at least I will have been there when something important happened.

She once told me that the reason I write is because I want to prove that I exist(ed). And there's palpable truth in that statement. I'm terrified by the humanity I am at once thrilled to be consumed by. Because, what matters when you no longer believe in god or, in fact, in anything but this very moment and the cold rush of ecstasy when you're at your best? A rhetorical question that I can only occasionally answer, and I must say that the notion of being some tiny blip within the universe is the only thing that doesn't make me feel empty. Not to be important to people who capitalize the "I", but to at least have made some communion with reality and left something marginally more durable then the 80-some years I will breathe. I hope that's not repulsively vain.