It All Comes Back To Him Now

After an afternoon on the deck with
Windpony on the stereo, and a couple
sticks of sandalwood incense, nothing
really seems to matter anymore; not
his own malfunctions or the explosions
of others; not the news or the news
of the news, not the sad fact of the
loud lame-brained loser doing his best
to drag us all into Hell along with him.
No. None of it matters. None. We’re
not even along to enjoy the ride; not
here to scream for joy or to scream in
absolute and abject horror; we’re not even
here at all, despite what we think we see;
despite everything we think we know.
No. None of it’s real. None of it. None.

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