i'm in a fever dream; collapsing in a shower that took far too long for me to realize wasn't getting me any cleaner, just more wet. a fever and dehydration. sleeping far too much yet not deep enough to matter. 1986 queuing up inside my head, past the usual targets of 2001, 1997, 1983, and 1975. i sleep, i dream, i hope, and i pray. ayn rand dreams a cleaner more streamlined form of nightmare where inkblots reveal more and less than our deepest darkest desires. it's always five minutes to midnight somewhere while america dreams of ultimate deterrence dressed in blue like the blue on the flag smoking a cigar and laugh, laugh, laughing at us, at them, at everyone. tired cliches come ramping up into iconic imagery. black freighters cut through the jungian waters of our sleeping selves. piracy, murder, and even cannibalism mirror what we see on the page, the story we tell ourself is our lives. who watches the watchmen? who? we do.
march 9th, 2009