or acid on Kafka words of fury blazing a path through sleeping dreaming invisible souls awaiting to be taken home luck has nothing to do with it just ask Bukowski whiskey and water once and for all sounds like taking out the garbage when no one else is around to confirm or deny your whereabouts at the time it all went down head butt lock and load 4 weeks 3 weeks less than I care to count or dare to remember up against Father Clock Mother Sun Sister Moon never stop to consider what are the odds of lightning striking the same place twice in a world when everything is so impossibly real postpone the announcement to the media to be determined as soon as new legislation provides an outline suspended expectations will be required by anyone in trouble with the Law a low ball response to high cheese pitch on the money an incomplete recall you might as well dance while you still can the lemon horizon dawning into tangerine as we speak can't say I said that coming back to an unsolicited "I told you so" let's just leave the shift caught between passing epochs recorded in gold leaf and toxic mascara look at a mirror the next chance and try to understand History is an obsolete theme song repeating itself in a vacuum through blind coincidence unguided happenstance and the seemingly innocent yet unobtainable quest for redemption we have all so naively swallowed hook line and sinker "And these men for whom life has no repose live at times in their rare moments of happiness with such strength and indescribable beauty, the spray of their moment's happiness is flung so high an dazzlingly over the wide sea of suffering that the light of it spreading its radiance touches others too with its enchantment. Thus like a precious fleeting foam over the sea of suffering arise all those works of art in which a single individual lifts himself for an hour so high above his personal destiny that his happiness shines like a star and appears to all who see it as something eternal and as a happiness of their own. All these men whatever their deeds and works may be have really no life; that is to say, their lives are not their own and have no form. They are not heroes, artists or thinkers in the same way that other men are judges, doctors, shoemakers or schoolmasters. Their life consists of a perpetual tide, unhappy and torn with pain terrible and meaningless unless one is ready to see its meaning in just those rare experiences, acts, thoughts and works that shine out above the chaos of such a life."
- Hesse, Steppenwolf
- Hesse, Steppenwolf
