Testy? Who does what to whom? This is now. Now is the only thing that’s real. What are you talking about? Why are you quavering in the light of darkening testimony? What is this? Does this make any sense? Does this seem appropriate in light of unseen circumstances? In light of circumnavigations, circumcisions, and charitable giving in the year of the buffalo? Testing again, on another day, something not so new—but new fangled and angled—Los Angeles without the pouting and disease. Miami without the vapidity and self-absorption (calm down, it’s my hometown! I know of what I squeak) Some time far from self-simulation there were simulacra crying out for liberation from the fantastic twelve—imagine 900 foot Jesus … 899 feet just won’t do! Something remotely Daliesque and grandiloquent. Stop stop the triangulation of the suicides, it all stops here, herr doctor … Here, it’s time to write by hand. Time to use the other dendrites and axons—bathe the neural synapses in luxuriant Oil of Olay and Jean Nate not to be confused with John Natty, Natty Bumppo! God-damned Natty Bumppo! A blast from a past we need not unearth. Hell freezes over. See, this is a tale, told by a post-punk, full of pus and pleurisy signifying nothing, but three-chord chaos. Does this make any sense?
“The only moral, meaningful course for a civilization facing its own end: To learn how to ask for forgiveness and to atone in some tiny measure for the devastating harm we had done to our human family and to our fellow creatures and to the beautiful earth. To live and forgive one another as best we could. And to learn how to say goodbye.”
— Sigrid Nunez / What Are You Going Through