Here

I'm tired of all these attempts culminating in pedantic little terminological playoffs. Here's something terribly flesh-and-blood relevant: I'm depressed as all Hell, this very moment, and I haven't the least, not even an infinitesimal, reason why. There is nothing I can do. I am my depression. Give me blood over abstractions. Give me blood over abstractions. Much better.

There's so much wrong with this world (nota: this has nothing to do with my personal life, and it isn't in the least a cause of my depression). Why waste your time by smiling, only to feel hollow -- only to run from hollowness, only to invite apparent depth, only to write a superficial constitution whose words melt the moment they are actualized? Example: We live in a culture where mentioning the word fuck connotes greater negativity than mentioning starving children. There's a whole spectrum to choose from. What is that, Russian sage? Everyone wants to change the world without wanting to change himself? I've changed myself; I am continual change, with a few cynical anomalies (I'm trying, I'm trying). This doesn't change the fact that the world is fantastically, flamboyantly, unashamedly absurd. Give me a metaphysical knife, and I'll be a happy murderer.

Everything is so compacted, so overflowing, with a hidden story and a history. I want to know each and every story; I want to be the historian for all existence.

Memories of your eyes don't help me. You're there and I'm here. What does death or the remainder of the world even matter? I can't stop this slow sadistic surge of longing.

You drop by to make me laugh, stranger, but still the darkness hovers and consumes. I choose not to escape.

And so all ends with chaos. Like it began.

My warehouse eyes,

my Arabian drums.

Should I leave them by your gate,

or, sad-eyed lady,

should I wait?