thinkings

I don’t know why I play the game. The same thing happens over and over and over until the ad nauseumness of the experience becomes dull. Yet here I am, in all of my wasted December glory, playing the ephemeral game. It has me by its hooks and I am truly unable to penetrate toward anything even resembling productivity. I enjoy its morsely bits, so tempting and calorieless: “air” as the wife so lovingly calls it. I have actually done good for something approaching 9 or 10 days. That is of course something to scoff at, but give me my moment in the spotlight anyway. I matter, universe! (and other trivialities) That will be the title of my second book. The first, of course, being called A Brief Respite for Hedonism. Trying far too hard. Sad in too many respects. But I’m keeping it. There is no true sense of accomplishment associated with using a stream-of-consciousnessed title. If you would like an example of the banalification of art, you would have come to the right place. And I do not want to be associated with that or anything approaching it, even from 15 yards and an e-book publisher who somehow owns all of the rights to your masterpiece of solipsism and projection. An all-girls high school sophomore’s first cigarette and sexual experience. Something to reach for while I bide my time.