..
I
On
the
Right
Sept
2QQ5
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all
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Al
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tj
n0t
talking
to
vou
and
consul
the
eveds
r
A"
.
JR
e'NL
"
iy-
rr.
7
i
,
,:-!
A
light.
It's
always
a
flashing
red
light.
Most
often
the
pulse
thereof
will
prove
insufficient
to
illumi-T
nate
the
precipice,
but
not
always.
Not
always.
And
not
today.
This
black
glass
eye
stares
at
my
own
with
blank,
stupid
indif
ference,
which
I
return
in
kind.
The
Seer's
Sphere
of
the
New
World,
all
pervasive
information
offering
no
cure
for
ignorance.
A
manifesta
tion
of
the
collective
consciousness
of
our
kind
in
these
great
days
ol
computer
generated
heroes
and
economically
unviable
lives.
am
tnis
ana
more.
g
I
do
not
turn
it
on.
Beyond
the
door
I
hear
voices
and
footsteps,
the
later
mostly
with
Durpose.
the
former
laraelv
without.
How
much
DeoDle
can
let
fall
from
their
mouths
when
the
have
nothina
to
sav.
tU
Astounding.
Really.
My
ears
and
soul
I
opt
to
caress,
these
sandpaper
kisses
which
at
times
have
seen
me
sought
and
shunned,
desired
and
ridi
culed.
Mine
is
a
path
perhaps
not
so
much
chosen
and
hunted
down
and
caged,
a
thing
beautiful
but
in
its
inability
to
be
tamed.
Oh
the
idiot
melodrama.
Oh
the
pretentious
drivel.
But
still
the
liaht
flashes,
and
it
is
there
that
I
direct
mv
gaze,
charmed
like
a
snake.
It
occurs
to
me
that
my
best
and
clearest
V
thoughts
arrive
when
I
opt
not
to
think
at
all.
Is
it
my
consciousness,
some
sadist
automaton,
whipping
my
poor
subjugated
mind,
forcing
it
like
an
abused
animal
through
a
gauntlet
unending,
of
blades
and
j;
boiling
thought?
Or
is
the
mind
itself
a
masochist,
flogging
itself
fre
netically,
performing
acrobatic
routines
solitaire,
a
circus
to
fill
these
shadow
spaces?
Does
it
even
matter?
Not
a
bit.
The
persistent
crimson
beacon
beckons,
promising
release,!
promising
peace.
Promising
oblivion.
One
way
trip,
limited
time
offer.
Act
now,
operators
are
standing
by.
In
this
sudden
calm
like
a
breath
cut
short
by
a
closing
fist,
the
charged
Chernobyl
stillness,
there
seem
only
to
exist
the
prosaicfl
fragmented
bloody
brilliance,
and
the
sound
of
my
one
hope
for
sal
vation.
Tones,
rhythms,
melodies,
harmonies,
syncopation,
dynamics
time
signatures,
sharps
and
flats
and
hearts
and
souls
and
the
gentle)
heartbeat
of
the
last
majik
science
has
yet
to
kill.
And
what
happens
when
the
song
ends?
Oh,
but
what
happens
then?
The
relentless
anaesthetic
assures,
with
clinical
detachment,
that
such
an
event
is
not
only
possible,
it
is
in
fact
inevitable.
A
mathematical
certainty.
A
self
fulfilling
prophesy.
Why
not
just
give
J
in,
fade
into
the
pulse
of
that
red
glow,
and
suffer
thought,
the
witchJ
of
reason,
to
live
no
more?
I
am
seduced.
I
am
horrified.
I