I know little about anything. I look at a map and see infinite spaghetti, endless intertwined miles of lives lived with furyless disenchantment. Spectacles and passing fads blast through skies among comets and blobs of octopus noodles but mundanity carries itself along, rocking to its unique form of hallelujah, adapted from centuries old usage of the term when its definition more closely aligned with the sensation of inextinguishable nostalgia for times and eras yet to exist.
Maps are quagmires to me, testaments and taunts of all the worlds within this world I will never know, never taste, never fuck or finger or frolic among. Cities lead to towns that ceded to hamlets and villages and unincorporated places where fundamental rituals of human life are similar but uniquely evolved from one home or hostel to the next. One woman’s toothache is another man’s missed opportunity. A stillborn child’s burial is an elderly man’s acceptance of a round of applause for turning 102.
Roads are shoulders rounding out countrysides with shrugs and blemishes, in need of massage.
What do I know of anything? A person just entered this room and quickly departed after securing a bag of cheese doodles from a vending machines. Is that gesture, that routinely mechanical dance, is it an insight into what makes all of this relevant, what causes us to concede that this day this air this sun and heat explain our solipsistic quest for identity?
Every breath of life felt different today. It felt clean and sure, with hoarseness resting on mindful soil.
