I am trained in First Aid. May I help you?
in a fit of rage, like shock, i have removed every word from the dictionary:
you are not reading this. a painting, like a glass of wordswill,
is inadequate. WE DON'T NEED THESE LETTERS, THESE CANDLES TO OUR FLAMES.
The machine is dying, we have to get out.
(If you like, imagine a building which is about to fall.
Everyone is afraid. A woman clutches a book and turns her face.)
Sound can disappear in these moments.
There are over a hundred thousand libraries.
But the building is not falling. It is like when people complain about rain.
How can this experience be negative? A building without people in it
is a space where only quiet hums live. It is like yesterday when accidentally,
instead, we talked about the feasibility of an airborne home.
You said, "What if we fly into a mountain?" and I pointed to the fairy,
which underneath reads, "FUCK THE MACHINE". That's what the fairy is doing.
There is an oasis where the sounds go. They are the violin
and the exhale of cigarette smoke. This is their witness protection program.
Shock can kill you. But I'm getting a little off track.
If you begin a letter by candlelight, to your dearest Octavius,
Love Always, August, flourish, extinguish the lamp and sleep --
is not the flame delivered? it is difficult to put s(o m)uch information
in one place. (A note to future readers: What are your libraries?
Is information alive in everyone? Has the internet burned slowly,
taking into ash the zeitgeists of what I have called the present,
and come to nothing? What is at the top of the pillars? Is it a bird,
the brilliance of which is guiding, or blinding, or moonlike?
And what is at the bottom?) Octavius seeks deep understanding,
to know a thing through and through. Balls to bones, Neo.
Sound is waves of pressure. Heat is a measure of tiny sound.
Like Kevin Spacey said, the end of the universe will be very loud,
but we cannot bring our eyes to its heights. That bird burns too brightly.
Writer's block is your mind telling you to stop writing. Don't fight it.
Like Robin Williams said, you have to first be the sponge to be the river.
Water evaporates from the ocean and condenses above in clouds,
held aloft by temperature differences (tiny sounds hold up the sky).
The clouds drift inland and dissipate onto us. Isn't that wonderful?
A bird cries. You were not ready and you may not get another chance to hear it.
This time, remember: All you have to do is listen, and be ready.
You have to have puzzles. Have the player jump over some turtles
and pick up some coins. Find the princess. Why?
There have to be lies to find truth. Ask the princess when you find her.
Ask her about Octavius. Remember what I said about truth,
and that trauma begins with anger then denial and sadness and finally release.
Vladimir created the envelope within which August now seals her letter,
including a loop of tape upon which is recorded: a single piano key struck;
a single piano key contributing to the death of our universe.
The last line reads, Dearest, Do you want to end up like March?
I came to the desert and brought my self with me;
I have cut off my eyelids
only to discover that the greatest darkness cannot be cut away
but must be planted and brewed and served hot, in the company of friends.