It’s not romantic.
Headlong into the teeth of this anticivilization at a time of apparent increasing rending of the veil.
It’s not like a mission, or a “calling” but all too often the feeling that one’s own mysticism and hope emerges to crush what is…
What is, is, after all.
So many peers, mentors and studies have packed away. They have “prepared”.
It’s the starkness of “alone” that draws the romance.
Again, we are stalwarts, we are the first immortals.
We do in fact have one another, we are not alone, physics won’t allow it, despite the delusion of “the collective” and the projection of “the one.”
There is the Universe in each cell; there is a sun alive in each snowflake at midnight.
Television, the local newspapers, lofting lazy, slow, turgid fecal zeppelins at the twinkie addicted cabbage patch faces overwhelmed by the 2D illusion of depth, awestruck by…
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