You ever just want to say fuck it?

Once I slapped my imagination on my back like a pair of feathered wings held tight with wax, and soared up high toward my Apollonian muse without a single cold hard logic otherwise. But the closer I came the farther I was and you know the story: the wax melted away until the wings flew off and I was plunged back down to the cold hard sick world.

And on the way down I said "fuck it," because it was worth every rushed second toward the inevitable cessation of all knowing. Because what is there to know really, except for the flights and fancies of imagination and our own death?