I am at a loss as of late: words, thought, articulation, anything that I would consider worthwhile. I am not necessarily in a depression, just …. something. Blank, bleached, preocuupied, I suppose, with nothing in particlar, just the regular trivialities of life.

And I have come to a realization even in this haze. Everything here in this damp stupidity, piss-beer colored water holes, is for preoccupation. What to do to entertain us today? As if the present is all there is and there weren’t an infinite number of reasons why here is here, why present is so laced with desperate whipsers we mistake as wind howling through our ever-forgetful bliss of consciousness. Why responses are so tired, why we’re all so fucking exhausted. Time is seen as a single surface, smooth, shiny, opaque. Even a single mirror, ourselves as the center-fold, of course. Who the hell else is there? Well, only a few billion others, a few trillion other things of no specific importance to our present moment. But there is a strange occurence when one places another mirror at a cetain angle in consideration of the first. There is a long train of selves, an infinite of blank eyes. Can one ignore so many blatant stares? It seems bliss is a parasite, sucking all reserves of brain mattter so that such occurences, such uneasy stares, can be eaten away just like ice cream. And shit out and forgottten down that convenient water hole we swim in a week later. I suppose nature is not without a sense of brutal irony.

Does every one swim in their own shit and smile as brightly as my mother, as countless others I encounter each day? spouting shit from every orifice. It is amazing she hasn’t drowned yet. I suppose I laugh, but I have my own cesspool to attend to. I do believe I am slowly draining mine though. Hers will be a fucking ocean soon. Yes, I have utter faith in ignorance is bliss.