Flash Epistle Number Four

Illusion 360

I was never the man I used to be. The bedrock of truth eludes me. I’ve grown old by increments, a smidgen at a time, then all at once. Women no longer see me or fascinate me. My chronic disdain for money has expanded with my waist and years. Sagacity has kept its distance. Life has grown colder and requires unrelenting effort, demanding the calm of a Zen Master to avoid drowning in the septic holding tank of this excremental culture where hedge-fund managers are heroes, art is owned by charlatans and thought has become defined by pundits who believe talking is thinking. Banality has metastasized sex into a billion dollar industry. People pine for titillation. Homogenization has become a virtue. I refuse to play the popular games. I’ve taken my ball and gone home. Possessions are alluring, dangerous objects. Politicians are feral monkeys flinging shit at one another. I’d rather drink and fish than be a cheerleader for madness. The days grow short but my vision sharper. I clearly see the darkness rising. All of this is difficult. Some days I feel like a piece of lost luggage. Time is withering me, but I’m still looking for that man I never used to be

Honorary Schizophrenic. Recent refugee. Displaced person. Old white male. Confidant of cassowaries.

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