The Dinghy

The Dinghy

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Sunday, April 27, 2003
Do not be (if you are) disillusioned by the dissolution of templates, the displacement of paradigms and the latent illiteracies that “life” has here, in this “place” (cybernetic as it may be), sought to make manifest.

The woof warps. The wharf woofs. And dogs, in their frustration at these things, aboard leaky boats in the innermost of inlets, bay at the moon.

What I am saying: trials, tribulations, police blotters, greed, gluttony, lust, frankincense, myrrh, unconscionably powerful Internet megaliths in apogee, insufficient funds, and our own slothful ignoramity, have, these past few measured units of time, succeeded in disrupting the (however small) monotonous pursuits we have heretofore managed to cultivate.

Apologias? We’ve archived them in spades. Excuses? The factory continues polluting.

But RESULTS? There have been none.

YES: from hell’s heart, I have been stabbed.
YES: I have spread my blubber hither and yon.
YES: I have pulled the boats down with me.
YES: everyone* has perished.

BUT: Yes: I am re-surfacing.
AND: Yes: I am now airing out my blowholes.

Know this:

Goodbye forever.

*the possible exception being my arch-nemesis, the Illiterate Interloper (a.k.a. my Ignorant Orthonym, a.k.a. my Ultimate Progenitor)

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