* beer, pencil on drink coaster
from just the right angle and just the right internal body chemistry. looking into mark-less skies for diversions while the cosmos's softly whispered horrors are transmuted through the snapping of surface tension, one drop to fill the gulf, basic physics and the inseparable terror of chance, blind, fucking, luck. soft slow syrup slipping south over the brim sliding slick semi-cooled liquid a cross a slab of super-hardened liquid. cascading down from a drooling heaven, spitting down the faces of slobbering, indifferent volcanoes. weeping above our heads, crying nostalgia into our sacred daily cups. can't really tell our hands from the wood-grain on the table. like a lightning strike chooses a lone man's head instead of acres of empty field, so we see universal wisdom while accidentally falling face down in the messy puddles of poison we make lapping the earth's blood. randomized nightmares of psychoactive Ishihara dot tests flash neon holes through Rorschach's subconscious every time he shut his eyes or Freud opened his third nostril. all the psychoanallitterateurs and all the sciences' men threw their arms into the air and out of windows with years of meaningless training reduced to effervescent carbon dioxide and car crashes. mammoth opalescent butterflies speeding past our mortal coil unroll glowing, prehensile tongues to lick tenderly in our ears that life is a technicality. the cost of energy. the irascible burden of knowing. bright light bulbs burn fingers...
He seemed so certain about everything, didn't he? And yet none of his certainties was worth one hair of a woman's head.
...Some trillions of years ago a sloppy, dirty giant flicked grease from his fingers. One of those gobs of grease is our universe on it's way to the floor. Splat.
-Brion Gysin's All-Purpose Bedtime Story,
as told by William S. Burroughs