March 2026
Every decision oft-times turns my head to watch for the normal police. I duck into my backpack and its contents are an irredeemable history - not only declarations of identity, but sticky pieces of tape and gum. Why don’t you trade nothing for nothing? - shouts the man who has all the fun - Isn’t it nothing for nothing and everything’s won? Retaliation of an impossibly demanding repertoire cradles this backpack like a baby and tends to all its needs, further instilling familial fixation on a single perishable object. You don’t need to lose the backpack, you just need to drop the baby on its head. The normal police fire calls to arms, and beat their drums, and shake the nerves in your toes to defend a yoke. Yoke defends yoke. Dare you nurse them? Return to pouring contents of misinformation above and below, like engine oil in the shower. Don’t buy yourself anything for congratulations. Just keep doing good things and avoid evil orbs. Their angelic pulsing… final, austere, luminous… Only a candle flame to the vastness of totality which is preceded by, surely the dropping of the baby, and its surrounding chaos, in other words, the daily dying-into-yourself sends shockwaves through your many-lived bones which hammer away at the golden eggshell of eternity. Macrocosmically, the sky. Microcosmically, the backpack. See what sits between your legs on the train? And how it grounds you? It keeps you earthbound. What did it say in the Imitation of Christ? To despise the world… in like, a cool, healthy, balanced way, yea, seek ye the orb of reality, cool, healthy, balanced. The vastness of totality within and beyond everything. within and beyond, see it’s all set in twos which becomes ones which becomes nones but content, empty, bedtime. No more tracing wisps of memory but embracing it and everything that’s ever happened as a conscious dream. Living and joyful, planned, divine, articulate. All devotion unfolding in recursive storytelling, and my own angel-death-birth scene the Baptism.