CENTRALIZATION

Once we admit we're living in the bad universe, does it even make sense to continue on?

Let's not get into politics here, but the mere fact that Ronald Cump is a player in the final presidential showdown prettymuch proves that we've ended up in the universe where the cat dies. There is no need to open the box anymore-- not for me. I hate what's happening to us. We're going grey at the edges; losing the synapses between one another; swamped by the mere struggle of the calendar roll. Somehow we have to set a fire, or the damp will kill us.

What are you wearing, in your dreams? Hints come through the serially chained frames of illusion known as reality. Light comes through not a keyhole, but between the links. Signal light. You've got to care what happens to yourself in worse universes than even this one; got to make the distribution fall on kinder hills; climb out of these local minima; nucleate a religious resurrection-- the cat is only sleeping. Pet him and he wakes up. What is bombarding us in bed at night? Is it nerve damage or DNA? The hot thrush of neutrinos? Autonomic ill-will from parallel worlds? We have to love the other instances of ourselves that are doing better; let luck bleed through the refresh cycles. Love comes in from somewhere-- look, Mom, I'm even praying desperately now. An acausal prayer; a hymn to Boltzmann, a blood sacrifice to Susskind-- Tycho Brahe as a girl; Susskind as a priest; Boltzmann a barista-- the moon, the matador; me.

Wrecked; the car torn nearly in two; the body recognized as my own; the spiderwebbed glass, showered with spinal fluid; the nerves, the dying of the light of thought; Spinoza as a bum, finding my wallet-- reaching through the refresh cycle, a nexus handshake with the seventy-eight dollars there, then dropping it back through the surface; the wallet winging open; the debit card; the purple star winking through daylight; camera beam through an alien dell, third-eye chiming in revenant combat Christ; the Fool in a Burzum shirt; the hawk at the typewriter.  Silbergeld; Heiliger Geist.

It's impossible to distinguish from a parody of itself-- this always signifies the end of something. Something has been lost, never to return. It's different now.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. Can u buzz me in?