| I am going to the mountains where the alternating universe of autumn descends over you at an erotic squat. Out of that blank and meaningless Play-Doh of my psychic flesh I am moving on. I am a pupil of fading antiquity. Sprawled across the table, in a lament about healthcare and the ineptitude of The System. Nothing burns quite like The System. It comes at you when you ask for help, displaying its super-talons around a clutch of arrows, saying No. "What deeds could man ever have done if he had not been enveloped in the dust-cloud of the unhistorical?" Nietzsche asks this morning from a small pamphlet on my lap, issued in 1949 in New York City, which I am leaving now, like a wife from her distant husband who will not stop to ask her why she is weeping while she slices apart his silk ties on the floor of the closet. Copyright © 2016 Bianca Stone. Used with permission of the author. |
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