The Hooves of Finite Mortality, in a Well Handled Manner

The word wavering has so much more meaning with seagulls high above it, just as only a neon sign could be used to explain agony appropriately.

"America is the country that shows all the written guarantees in the world for freedom are no protection against tyranny and oppression of the worst kind. There the politician has come to be looked upon as the very scum of society."
Her constant thought of this day was of the difference between concentric and concurrent circle patterns.
He was a man as he was merely nothing else, he was only everything that he could not be called.
Purity equals nothingness, and we find it irresistibly attractive because we are all children of nothingness longing.

"Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once."
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"When I think about nonlinearity, I think of consciousness itself, and that your consciousness is the way that you collect various pieces of information to understand the world around you."

"How helpless they all looked in the ugliness of sleep. A third of life spent unconscious and corpselike. And some, the great majority, stumbled through their waking hours scarcely more awake, helpless in the face of destiny. They stumbled down a dark alley toward their deaths. They sent exploring feelers into the light and met fire and writhed back again into the darkness of their blind groping."

"People are ambivalently amped-up on celebrities. They wildly worship them. They aim their adolescent adoration at them and get bupkis back. It's depressingly dissassociative. It's idiotic idolatry. Fan magazines fan the flames of fatuous fancy and reinforce the fact that your favorite stars will never fuck you. Scandal rags rip that reinforcement and deleriously deconstruct and deidolize the idols who ignore you. It's revisionistic revenge. It reduces your unrequited lovers to your own level of erratic eroticism. It rips the rich and regal and guns them into the gutter beside you. It fractiously frees you to love them as one of your own."


Gilded means to make beautiful, or to adorn. It also used to mean to make red with blood. The good old times, that Gilded Age is about to return.
The magic of the "eternal recurrence" is also the ugly face of the historical dialectic.
Apasmara will only ever see the snake shedding its skin (as he votes the way the pundits instruct), Vishnu will blink his eyes a thousand more times before his 401K matures, and Schopenhauer will have a different name the next time he fires his maid for dusting the Buddha (no fear, labour enthusiasts- he hires her back tomorrow).