07-24-2006, 12:14 AM
Metascientia Immortalis
It will be October, a year of cognitive emancipation. I took Calculus and all I got was this lousy metaphor. It's raining again, outside as well as in, and I shuffle inelegantly toward artificial light.
Bat people hang in doorways, living, and being lived on by the living. Sometimes the bottom tier like to think of themselves, are thought of as predators, but it is really that they are a standing crop or herd of sorts, plucked and reaped at will. Their radios creep out of sunken apartments amid brick and rain, following my shuffle down alleyways in search of that everloving incandescence.
For christ's sake, walk faster. Onward. Agnostic. Soldier. Before theology catches up to you (me). Swollen feet. Feels good for a change. Like going without, refreshed, unwound. Existing only in the potentiality of destination, the trek is what? Impotent? Photons invisible until they strike matter? And what of life in the vacuum?
I interweave through pedestrians, incognito in trenches, bourbon-seeping flesh, living sorts. Life is my own when I navigate the plan, weigh options, improvise, steal innocence and vitality under a streetlamp in the rain. Being undead means never being one of god's little creatures, thank the f****** gods about that. But eating isn't love.
Life between meals, daybreak, slumber.
It will be October, a year of cognitive emancipation. I took Calculus and all I got was this lousy metaphor. It's raining again, outside as well as in, and I shuffle inelegantly toward artificial light.
Bat people hang in doorways, living, and being lived on by the living. Sometimes the bottom tier like to think of themselves, are thought of as predators, but it is really that they are a standing crop or herd of sorts, plucked and reaped at will. Their radios creep out of sunken apartments amid brick and rain, following my shuffle down alleyways in search of that everloving incandescence.
For christ's sake, walk faster. Onward. Agnostic. Soldier. Before theology catches up to you (me). Swollen feet. Feels good for a change. Like going without, refreshed, unwound. Existing only in the potentiality of destination, the trek is what? Impotent? Photons invisible until they strike matter? And what of life in the vacuum?
I interweave through pedestrians, incognito in trenches, bourbon-seeping flesh, living sorts. Life is my own when I navigate the plan, weigh options, improvise, steal innocence and vitality under a streetlamp in the rain. Being undead means never being one of god's little creatures, thank the f****** gods about that. But eating isn't love.
Life between meals, daybreak, slumber.