April 21st, 2012

Isochronal Dreams

the abandoned brain

I am resolved to accomplish nothing today, and so far I am succeeding.

I am perusing assorted lyrics, etc., for an upcoming post: art as prophesy. (Any examples or suggestions for this post are widely welcomed and unlikely to be mocked demonically. Predictions of such things as 9/11; economic collapse, etc.). It is becoming obvious to me that stream-of-consciousness art, especially surrealistic, ends up predicting the future significantly. Just like dreams. Why is this so? News at eleven...

And here I repine whining and pining, my brain entwined in some great cosmic menstrual cramp, and I am but a man. I fathom the magic in creativity, at the very time the same creative regions of my brain lie wounded, wallowing, limping along on wormwood stumps. All is not fine after the last relapse - my pineal, my ventramedial prefrontal, my hippocampus are all in a state of agony - surely they have been damaged, but over the days they shall rise again, I say, say I. Until then, fuck to the world, I'm a vegetable. There's just too much to my posts to try to synthesize right now. By the time I am ready, though, I'll be someone else's quiche.