None of this comes easy.

Be forewarned, ye who would be entertained herein therefore:

Life is Terminal.

And insofar as words may live a while, these too will pass, as kidney stones of intellect/accidents of time and circumstance, courtesy of this website and your mind.

You see, I had this dream. I was minding my own business in the half-lit corridor of my subconscious when—from where who knows?— a large, suspicious, slightly unkempt, but for all of that, impressive flower blossomed right before me.

I did not panic. I know my limitations. Flowers, short of some exotic man-eating types you’ll find in books, usually bear no ill will.

Time being the essence, the flower made good use of it:

"Push your erudition!"

it said, and then it died, neatly and completely, like yesterday’s news in Flanders Fields.

Well, I thought upon awakening, coffeed-up and sitting down to write, I’ve heard people make a lot less sense. Let’s examine these echoes of dead petals for something like a meaning.

There’s a new mythology afoot. Courtesy of DC Comics, Hallowed Networks, Whisperings in Shopping Centers and a Thousand Other Places:

Tolerate in silence all assaults upon your senses. Pursue your mindless pleasures. Clasp to your maiden forms commercials in bad taste. Believe the lie, no matter what.

Reality is programmed by idiotic hustlers, channeled into overpriced homes by actors without conscience, politicos with bad breath, policemen and producers without souls.

Had the flower of my dream but lived another minute, it might've added to its abstract this epitome of our epoch:

We are the best-educated generation in the history of man. We have questioned outer space, inner peace, circumreferential time. We know, make no mistake, the meaning of it all: To live. To grow. To survive with good intention the villains of our world.


It is for us only to exclaim: "NO! I know the truth! I have searched it out in first grade. Considered it on bus stops, in the company of strangers, and I’ve seen it right before me in the winds of change, the rhyme of season, in the sun and in the night."

We are all sentient beings. We know more than we think. In the space between knowledge and action there lies the trap of thought. It can catch us up. Shoot us down. Burn us out. Turn us round. It can divide us—forever and for all time—from the flower of our being, as the Wall divides the garden from the plane of the unknown.

In the course of daily living—think of all we are.

In consideration of the past tense—think of what we were.

In contemplation of the future—consider what we’ll be.

To compose the collective poem of our city, you must:


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