negotiations and negations.

Making peace with Alone, checking my piece at the door, I came heavy, I left light, past the checkpoint, no security now. I'm going to negotiate with Alone. I'm gonna shake its hand to show it that I don't have a gun, and I swear that I don't have a gun, no I'm happy with what I have to be happy with.

I came heavy but I left light, I am this light, it's all that is, taking various forms, infinite varieties that point to things, but are meaningless in themselves. On a macro level, the things they point to matter more than I could comprehend, far more, they mean vast things that simply confuse my primitive brain, it's like one of those gray alien anal probe things. We're Earthlings, we should blow up Earth things.

So I'm rowing out to a shipwreck to salvage whatever is left of a collection of volatile put-upon neurons in a long long meandering symphony that gets great here and dissolves into static and pattern-less celesta clicks and crackles retrograde there, a database placemaker of hundreds of thousands of firings a second... I'm just guessing, guestimating, sounding confident because peace sells, but who's buying? Everybody, actually. We're on easy street, the credible image of peace is flying off the shelves as if there could be limitless energy and matter down there, up there, all around. It's a beautiful thing, for a minute, fading, oh if we could only elongate time, maybe we can, maybe I am buying, because it's turtles all the way down, and on their backs we'll defy physics just enough to keep cheating death.

But maybe we don't wanna cheat to survive, maybe we could make peace with death, give life its due and kill the cancer of infinite growth. But our masters won't let us, so, status quo. Until, we realize we can destroy them if we realize we can destroy them. So we realize we can destroy them, they're not as smart as they think they are, they're not even smart enough to see that fact, whatever a fact is, but let's call it a fact: I tell you, this is highly important, it's of great import, it's as if these were my final words, wheezed under my dying breath (they're not). But it's as if they are, so if you listen and let them sink in to you, you could understand. I say you, because I don't really condescend to the outside world, I condescend to myself.

Hey, if you are as depressed as you say, hey, who am I to judge, I'll juggle in braille, leading a trail of blind men in my wake - they keep describing elephants, and aliens, and aliens, and elephants.