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Sorta feel it coming on... Events of recent history all building and contributing, some bad influence that's waiting to bloom into something not so bad, perhaps, but blooming into looming question marks, I'm left scratching my head with my hands lingering at the keyboard, home row...

What I've read, what I'm reading, what I've felt, what I'm feeling, together it takes me back to nearly the very end of the 20th century, May, maybe, and a breakdown that was perhaps more of a break than a breakdown, a snap, not a quarter-life crisis, but mind reeling, free-wheeling, descending into a madness I kinda miss, although I know if it struck again I might not know what to do or say or be, and I'd disappear.

Gotta bang on my drums, strums the guitar, he (I) sits staring into space, everywhere, all around, sky from here to there and everywhere in between, blimps and planes and choppers and bugs swooping soaring noisy and it strikes me, this [was] on the back of a book, a present-tense shift to past, 'cause he's gone... And I remain, somewhat, somehow, some blooming idiot with little real idea...

But that was the point, after all... I silence myself and implode, grin here and there and enjoy life, no doubt, but to what end, just convinced I'm enjoying it, not sure what else I should do with it, this pleasant horror, the bodies everywhere, walking dead but living more than I can manage...

Is this acceptable? Objectionable? Rejectable? Pending?

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It is good that almost everyone can now have the fine arts at his fingertips, by just turning a knob on his set, or by just stepping into his drugstore. In this diffusion, however, they become cogs in a culture-machine which remakes their content.
Herbert Marcuse in One-Dimensional Man

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