“Upon the Clouds of Sense”

I noticed something about life tonight: that it’s constantly, frivolously and aimlessly composed of bout of worship after bout of worship, until we all die. And in every place with more than one individual to choose from, it’s a mutually exclusive choice of whom to worship, and whom to tolerate, the “toleration” then rendered a virtuous obligation, the “worship” more akin to love, sex, romance, procreation, the creation of more tasks of toleration and opportunities to worship. Then, we see, how to love is truly futile, since to love is just to worship, which is to subjugate oneself to position of inferior. The woman is often empty. She does not exist. She is waiting for you to invent her, giving you the carnal flesh that is a man’s quest, elemental in its inescapability in cognition. Somewhere in there, deep down, is life. Like a necklace of petal eyes it waits.