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"For, lo! The winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land." - The Song of Solomon

Every cobble-filled step took him closer to the evolutionary origin of the hunch backed savage. Punished on two legs for a century of genetic understanding, or was it all a lie? 

To evolve is to alienate oneself from the slouching masses of the mewling envious; because of the space your abstraction affords you, and the bitter derision at your failure to see the wasteland that you will face and can no longer till.

Pop artists swill upon you, with their Bongos and their Barbies, dealing with the lowly trivia of possessions and equipment that the present generation is lugging along with it, on it's safari to the future. All safaris are rip-offs, the distance is too great for a species that is not confident it wants to survive.

Pornography is loved by millions, desperately trying too turn themselves off from the crisis of procreative boredom.

Prissy painful feet tread on the earth, the curly-toed cousin, who laughs, with cancer in the twinkle of his eyes at the folly of trying to sell him a livelier, fractured self. One that longs for a philosophy by which to guide it, poor middle classes, who thought they'd need you soo much. 

"The trouble with Marxism is that it is a social philosophy for the poor. What we need is a social philosophy for the rich." When Ballard wrote that he must have been on the sauce, eh?

Is nature up on the screen, with false bosom, warning us of our extinction? Should the return of one dreamer boy depend on the U.S. government's determination of whether his peccadilloes, political or otherwise, finally end the quest of the orange man, hollowed out by the tools of his own mechanistic über rise to judgement?

If most of the judicial style judges end up in an asylum, medicated, screaming, and guilt ridden before their maker, where does the smirky couple end up after clubbing the entire disco floor with derision? Only the truly guilty can know what it means to be innocent... the mirror of possession returns you to your dreams. 

Of the hidden messages and codes of the tiny segments of your evolution, your desires ring out through your imagination, reminding you which of your outfits work and what response a new haircut might bring, in tune to a time when you had to look down when you walked. Try the cobblestones on a rainy day with a tiny hole in your shoe, or a city park. 

Why do we feel so comfortable at work, and why does play seem harder than that?

This is the pause, the break that relieves me from awareness that could trigger the confusion of yet more abstract thinking. And the fear that the abstract knows something, or perhaps the wish that it knows nothing haunts Igor, 200 koruna richer, but feeling cheated nonetheless. 

Not knowing that this gorgeous paranoia is something that numbs over stages, and the scope of the stones leaves a trap door back into the imagination, a stimulation level that merely drips upon the forehead in steady rhythm to the frightening descent back to earth, which the upstanding ride off upon.