Creeping Determinism

They say hindsight is 20/20, ideal for evoking regret. But sight in the now? 20/200, ideal for what else but evoking the mayhem that evokes regret.

Life-recycling

It was 7 a.m. after a bloody and sleepless night. There was a light and eerie mist that enveloped our drab scrubs as we silently strolled to Food for breakfast. The ambiance changed immediately once we stepped into the warm restaurant, the inviting smell of sizzling omelets and bacon beckoning us ever so tenderly. It was like any other morning, the 3 of us just trying to endure another 24 hours of life-recycling. That's what we did for a living. We recycled the lives of Dreamers and gave them to the lives of non-dreamers. Carlos ordered the Belgian waffles. In his knowing tone of voice, he said, "When I met the girl I knew I would end up with, I did the smart thing and ran away." At first, I thought to myself, how silly. Who knew we were still life-recycling even on our breaks?

Was ist Sprache?

Was ist Sprache? Musik ist die universelle Sprache. Du spricsht auf Franzosisch. Ich verstehe nichts. Du singst auf Franzosich. Ich verstehe alles. Was ist Sprache? Kunst ist die universelle Sprache. Du sprichst auf Spanisch. Ich verstehe nichts. Du machst Kunst. Ich verstehe alles. Was ist Sprache? Sprache ist Musik. Sprache ist Kunst.

Drinking carrot juice

I'm feeling restless. When I write, part of that restlessness evaporates. But it does just that - evaporates...it appears to disappear, it changes states, but is still very much there. I sit sipping on my drink, staring at the transparent skull that rests on my desk, illuminated by a strange yellow light. I'm pretending my body doesn't exist, that it's just the world and the little minion that sits so snugly in my brain. It's a story with no plot, no beginning and no ending. It's a story with just feelings.

Cosmicomics

I'd like to run naked in a forest without anyone to tell me it's wrong. My only coat would be my skin and my hair and the hard soles I would develop from running barefoot. And when I'm bored of running naked, I'd like to jump into a large lake and grow fins and gills and swim endlessly among other naked fishes. I would wait for dawn at the spot of water where the first rays of morning hit perfectly and reminisce at the wavering mirage of Land Things. Dryness would be nothing more than a distant memory as I scuttle deeper and deeper into the sulfur-ridden unknown.

Warning

How often we arrive at destinations we could never have imagined for ourselves. I think of all the possibilities I've yet to encounter and the ones I've missed, and I feel all the more ready to take another step forward. Sitting, waiting, wishing won't do us any good. No, siree, Jack Johnson, no siree.

Stories

Beside the large window,
adorned with little champagne lights
sat the couple, couplet, deuce.
The smell of meatballs and wine
filled the cozy air,
of little Italy, the Hot Oven.
How often we make stories,
of things we don't know.
How often we make lives,
of people we don't know.

Take, for example,
the black-suited waitress.
She was an aspiring actress,
a real Betty Elms,
pursuing neo-noir thrill
and lavish vignettes,
now serving coffee to couples who--
amidst slurping oysters
and sipping pinot--
have become the directors
of her melancholy dream