The Ghost Who Sells Memories

“The material universe appears to be passing away like a tale that is told, dissolving into nothingness like a vision.” – Edmund Cooper

I am a dysthymic monomaniac wading in rot and bistre. I howl at Tuesday afternoon’s autumnal moon: brilliant pink and yellow crepuscular hues tranquilize the day. Some hide, some reside (they are not mutually exclusive). Either/Or, matters none, for the languorous vibration between selective memory and lackluster lie is the home of our homes. (A lascivious tongue laps a strychnine blade: a razor wielding mantis of prey, a perpetual poison drop atop each day by day: and everything that is and ever was – FEATURING: all things lied to and about. (I forewarn you: this is not going to be fun.)

And why shall I want when I can aspire? Aspire to feel decent amidst my biopsychosocialspirituality’s voracious emotional hitch in a ditch in a rut dancing on Occam’s Razor while sprinkling anthrax on a jelly doughnut? A possible contextual moment while twirling in vanity’s tumble cycle? (Learn to love the boulder. Learn to love the mountain. Learn to love each step. Learn to love participation’s opportunity, and be grateful to dance with Sisyphus. I am what we all are: molecularly compressed fecundity and patient death. (Remember, time is a bastion of forgiveness.)

(Above are the first two paragraphs to my novel in progress: The Ghost Who Sells Memories)

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