'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Saturday, July 23, 2005

I found this grain of sand and read this inscription

And now, is it all about God? Is it that we don't celebrate together enough or that we never really wanted to anyway? What are we afraid of? I take a swipe, a snarling teeth snap at misunderstood movement in the dark and I take chunks out of my foot, my sister, my brother, my father, my mother. We must be together in the dark. 'Oh God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and consider myself a king of infinite space were it not that I have bad dreams.' - oh Hamlet. Give yourself up to the joy of battle, the equinimity with all life to find the infinite grace and power in all things outside ourselves, a communion with and a commute to the great hilarity. Lets share bunks drunk on this barge on which we all awake, stink, shit, dance, hide, imbibe, wank, fuck, feed and learn to swim where we'll all fuck each other over in the end when we've burnt the last mast. Make good while it lasts the best of us. The rest? They're in hell already, you minion fucks. Yes, man is the choice maker and I choose to love because I know how sweet hate tastes. I have fillings.