It’s not like there isn’t plenty to do; there is plenty to do.  Making lists is as much as pleasure as a chore.  But it is the gaps in between, and it always has been.  Clean and clinical, synaptic, the urge and the pulse — beyond all that you can taste, and touch, and put your hands on — there it exists, distant and unmoving, fixed in a tractor beam of light, turning around slowly, an inscrutable marble egg of disdain and boredom that is opening its gasping mouth in its very anticipation.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s