I consider it nothing less than the search for the cosmic sub-principle, those singular trace elements that manufacture a sublime unwinding, one revolution at a time, a sort of mind-body current where the mind investigates body nature and the body investigates mind nature, a strategic inquiry into the causation clause, the mean undercurrent of the infinity offering. This is the consideration I demonstrate to my exception of all rules, sort of like the way a moth flies around a porch light looking for the source of the light ready to die a martyr’s death as the cost of the finding.

Last night I removed myself from the vestibule of my traumatization, and walking down to the corner store I was asked for a match by a Romanian-looking woman wearing a ski hat and a monocle. I told her I did not have a match, and she took back everything she said. She disappeared up the sidewalk at an alarming pace. I decided to search for her, but she had vanished. Those things that I find meaningful, they always vanish, appearing once again fresh and unborn in the equivalent of my dire studies, the color of rainbows that have not yet shed their colors for the coming of the autumn retreat.