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this'll be in there somewhere.

pelted drapes smelt clay.

Bataille wrote of Nietzsche that he burned with the ardor of those who would die for god and the good but without any belief in god and the good and that this was what ultimately drove him over the edge nevermind the syphilis and although I am neither of these men and although it may be that Bataille wrote from an overly-nihilistic reading of Nietzsche although I think that is a complex question and I am not about to claim or argue anything in relation to it right here right now--

chert.

Where was I. All that is is too much. I do not know if Bataille was also born without endogenous endorphins. This is an apocryphal story that I tell myself about myself, that my natural level of endorphins is so far below average that walking through the air feels like walking through suspended blades of obsidian except that the feeling itself is not entirely physical except that it is visceral but it is not locatable: not in the head, the heart, the rib cage, the throat, the arms and shoulders, hands and feet and legs but all of them at once except that yes no it is it is not palpable but it is you just cannot feel it with your five manifest senses but with the silent one that lives in the gut and pulls you along its horizontal axis as though on a wire entering and exiting bloodlessly.

On one arm, pulling with the momentum of any given body in any given stellar system around its central points of heat and light, desire strains toward nothing in particular other than a pinpoint that pulses indecisively between the wished for and the made up; pulling on the other arm, in another direction that is not opposite but just different enough to tear the connective tissue that keeps them in communication with one another and with the force of a billion complex molecules being drawn into a microscopically thin entropic sheet of component moments of coiled energy no longer speaking with itself nor cohering into any state about which anything could be said something like a death wish promises sleep without the interruption of dreams that conclude as they always do inevitably me waking shaking my head violently to dispel the delusions and then go running after them calling to them wait no don’t go don’t leave me here.

I do not like metaphors and so I do not use them when I write when I can help it. Neither do I like its more explicit cousin the simile that likens two givens with each other in an effort to give something like a material body to whichever one is so little amenable to language that it cannot speak on its own terms but occasionally one sneaks in because there simply is no other way.

There simply is no other way. It used to be that I found my direction by instinct and shook off anything that seemed to be detaining me on my way to where I was going although I knew that where I was going was not a place and that what it was that I longed for was going itself and leaving in my wake a trail of nothing but the trace of a having been or a having gone or a sound wave oscillating in the seam of the space that opened before me and closed behind me with the clarity of a bell struck with a polished hammer expertly and precisely and with just enough muscle as to encircle all space with the resulting wave.

a punchcard.
three joules.
lapels of stainless steel.
nested.
tensile strength.
elevated pencil.
blue streak.
this trestle arches.
turns currently terns.
recursion burns.

The sugar frosting did not used to hurt my teeth but now it does so I do not eat things with frosting. My psychiatrist said to me last we met that it may take forty years to grow up but it takes fifty more to die.

Get this.

I will do it again you watch.

Without resolution and without tidying loose ends but leaving them to flap in the solar wind.

Between here and there lies no path and not even a hint of which direction to take. I can only make guesses as to what might be useful and you can only make guesses as to where it leaves you except that we can both be sure that we had this moment only it does not subsist either locally or in any far-off imagined room of the heart’s kingdom.

I know less than you do. Near-misses cannot for all their proximity touch each other they remain both near and missed.


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