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Futility nips at the edges of these words.
These words. These words. Anaphora denotes emphasis, cause and effect. Correlation, not causality.

These minor fatal details will be the end of me. Of us. We.
We linger at the world's edge with a fishing rod and trawl for carp.
The end of the world is crap. It's nothing to worry about, not while there's a war on.

Fight! Officer, there's a fight. Quiet, man, there's a war on.
But sir. Fight for your country.

Donne wrote
And death shall be no more,
Death thou shalt die
.

A hollow lie. Therefore never send to know.

The bell tolls, for thee a thousand roses a moonlight kiss askance. Round cheeks soft smile.

This just in: there is no missing matter. Sorry about that; rounding error.
There is nothing after this.
He said You hypocrite! First purge that log from your own eye, and then help your neighbor remove the speck in his.

He cast the first stone but it's okay because we caught him and he's dead now.
All said and done, his curriculum vitae a tabula rasa, he was no rara avis.
Sincerest condolences for your losses, ma'am, please sign on the X.

Do not pass Go do not go static stay do be. That's the way of things.
Game over would you like to play again. Please insert coin to continue.
Mu.

I don't believe that Zen bullshit.
Reincarnated as a fish dreaming of land a turtle wanting to fly a man longing for space a tree a tree a tree.
Asking mother do I smell like trees yet is it enough for him?
I want to be a tree so I can be part of something big. When I grow up I want to be tree. When I want a tree.

Three is a magic number. Three times after midnight the clock rang and Cinderella's carriage and dreams turned to mice and dust. Three times the cock crowed. Syllogism's two constructs prove the third, the fallacy of begging the question, the slippery slope argument it all runs together.

He said You Peter the denier are the rock the Rock on which I will build My Church.

Glorificamus in Deo.

Song and dance, stone and wax, papyrus and monks' carefully reproduced illuminations are our only record of the fallen empire. We keep their gods, too, but we change their names. All history is revisionist because aren't we part of it? And aren't we changing always?

I wish we wouldn't. Couldn't. I wish it would stop and stay, static California redwood unchanging perfect telomeres like tree roots.

Consistency is all I ask he said.


ROS (an anguished cry): Consistency is all I ask!
GUIL (low, wry rhetoric): Give us this day our daily mask.
Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

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