Truth Comes In Spurts

"what is this, this philosophy?

it's as if i cannot write. i seem to feel all tingly n also tense some how. but i shall write you this letter nevertheless. never the less. the less never. less the never.

plot. i thought about plot. the word plot. plot it out. the movement of yer characters. now, first thing you need is a hero or two. now a hero is some one who is special. this is not quite as stupid as it sounds. as i am not quite as stupid (or am I?) as i sound.

should i capitalize the personal pronoun? he had no name. he was a narrator. but as he was postmortem he did not have no grand narrative(s). so he could only describe his fundament. he was the poet of his poopy. "no. leave that in."

god damn you little shit. fucking

he was sooooo post-modern. he was incredibly up-to-date. i mean no one was in front of him in this race to racelessness. i'm in the race for grace. i'm in it not to win it. i want to see if i can out non-compete the others. i will compete less. i will be even lazier than the second-laziest.

to be deep is , if you ask the man on the mountain, quite shallow. whereas to be shallow is (these days) deep. this isn't very funny.

he was nameless, this our protagonist and erstwhile narrator. not that he had never been given a name, but rather that this name failed to stick. it slid off one rainy day, this christian name.

once perhaps he had fancied himself a foolosopher. now this is a bullshit mask like all the other bullshit masks. all the other makes.

all is vanity he once considered tatooing upon his forearm. why? to remind him that it didn't mean shit. now this is painful thought. but it was less painful than the idea of fucking something up that meant something. meaninglessness is the great leveller.

lets say we are all made of urge. lets say that schopenhauer and nietzsche and who the fuck else ever were vaguely if not specifically right. hume: reason is or ought to be the slave of the passions. the brain is the tool of the gonads. the brain helps the genes survive. the pseudo-mystical genes. the code. the virus.

is not writing an analogy both for genes and viruses? viruses need hosts. genes need mortal bodies. the text needs a reader. the text is scribbles w/o a reader.

the fantasy of being a great writer. the cliché of the phrase. how stupid it sometimes seems to bother with such (but that is a lie) for who does not crave glory? k.o. he replies --sure. sometimes we don't need glory. sometimes we are caught up in the ecstasy of the moment. oh yeah. oh yeah. the moment that only music can explain. but explain is not the word now is it? music can mirror our ecstasy.

music can instill. music can install our ecstasy. our ecstatic symbolico-sensual response.

he was a poet. is poet the wrong word? is poet no longer a viable word for what he was ? did it just knot sound cool? ok then. he was a writer. woooooo

no. he was a reader. this our narrator and protagonist. his only name was he. he was his only name. "we dont have perspective. we are perspectives..." what the F do you think of that?"