(1) I've always been self-conscious, looking down at myself from some elevated nook in scrutiny and judgment, like a coach supervising a reliably incompetent team.
(2) It's as if my path resides in a phantom construction zone, my universe deflated, wrapped in caution tape and everyone drives by real slow, neck-craning.
(3) I am becoming a habit-run collection of cells, taking in and expelling information like a chemical reaction in which the energy stored is equal to that which is released.
(4) Yet I am even now in communication with all the crumbs and other unrecognizables embedded in the carpet and feel an overwhelming urge to vacuum them up at some point to reshuffle the conversation. I compile lists. What I ate in the past week and how much farther back can I go. Words glow on the throats of people I am speaking with, which is why I know what they're about to say.
(5) I chew on roots and leaves. I sleep one hour a night. I feel a pleasant heat on either side of each eye between my hairline and outstretched brows. I feel it in your eyes, too. I am hyperaware, but there are large chunks of time unaccounted for.
(6) Being self-conscious also portends that I am egocentric. Who loves his world more than the scientist convinced that all matter revolves around his glossy, mind-sized Earth? Or the politician who tightens the noose on his "homeland" out of passion for a reality built out of fear? It's as true that Jesus sits at the right hand of God in heaven as that I am the only lifeform that has ever existed.
(7) Imagine that all experience is nothing more than the brain processing signals captured by its visual extensions, and any attempt to convert these transmissions into sense is no more meaningful than a car's engine turning gasoline into smog. And the way that you and I perceive a thing can be unrelated based wholly on the way that you move your head, close your eyes or boldly sneeze at a crucial moment.
(8) I am right here with you, unwriting these words. My veins are neither brittle or loose; they are in fact imperceptible. I get all gloomy like the cameras are rolling, like this will all someday be analyzed for intent by clones with no privacy and no desire for it in a world where to hide something means to shrivel up and die.
(9) My keyboard's an Ouija. I have my own diseased visions. There is no way of knowing whether anything carries qualities measurable outside my perception. Or that I am anywhere or anything at all. But it is easy to candycoat these fears through neon-drenched lies and digitized mimicry.
(10) How long to reflect on the unknowable, assured that to discover the answer means to bury the truth? Not to bury in shame, but in forgetfulness or greed.
(11) The skies grow wild with flames and heat and just as quickly -- as if slathered in old mop-water -- turn a gray smear. Seagulls' eyes glow NVG green as they flap through colorless space. People with complicated, irrational lives saunter by undetected below.
I came from amazonmusic to compliment, have a laugh, and ask a real question... but my hands hover and I realize any type of exchange with you seems impossible or at least too intimidating. I feel my throat-glowing words euphorically swept up and away with your carpet crumbs. And that's ok. . . . What beautiful, frightening, cynical, observant synapsis in that head of yours. It seems you soak in a tortured state of over examination while condemning the rest of us to saunter, run, saunter through ego-centric, greedy, fearful and irrational lives? Well, anyway, regardless, thanks for the abundant imagery. And now, to what initially brought me here: Automated Message, how I enjoy thee and thy snarky reviews. I wonder. . . what music IS worthy of your praise?
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