"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Prose Before Hos

At the end of every weary road, beyond every fork in them and before the fording of any violent river, I have come without regret for any choice I’ve made with the knowledge that every decision was performed to the best of my aesthetic and philosophical judgment and that no further information can be extracted from my telling. With this in mind it is only the mirth naturally accrued from the notion that what is now internally in me is my everlasting state in spite of this very thing; that this is the concurrent outcome of being what I think to be correct and proper is that which keeps me entertained and mentally insouciant to the implications and consequences of my current action and in other cases, the lack thereof. Like this prose, there is no rhyme; logical conclusion, but no real reason for existing; a ghost with no shell; an EVA with no pilot; a puppet master spawned in a flow of digital data, but nothing more than a sum of parts: film quotes, whistled melodies, philosophical jibba jabbin’… under borrowed time.

Bryce- “How can you be so fucking, I don’t know… cool about it? He presents himself as this harmless old codger, but inside… but inside…”

Bateman- “But inside doesn’t matter.”

“One’s soul is like an engine, it requires fuel… even a soul can run out of motive power.” -Ayn Rand

Sunday, July 20, 2008

1 comment to Prose Before Hos

  • BrianshipPotemkin

    Amen, stheñor. You and I, me and yourself, us and us are far past the vertex of our own existence and only viewed from the pinnacle of others sight can we see ourselves fully alight; from that prismatic vantage fully lit is a body bleeding out on a battlefield we sought ourselves at one time to be fit for.

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