THE BOOK, THE MACHINE, AS I LEAVE HERE – RHETORICALLY
Abrupt. My retreating hairline grounds me back to this mediocre linearity of procession. My dead cat. My dead aunt. My dying patience. My deadly disclamation of presence. Everything and every which way this starts, it ends – not fading – makes room for another start, a start that ends with the consciousness of its own celibacy. Its intangibility. Its reason. Its involuntary transience. Its inevitable disclamation of presence. That, as I look back, it had been the wrong one. Debatable, as there is no right or wrong. Debatable, as there is no right and wrong. Arguable, as nothing else matters, but my insubstantial phallus as we wrestle in our rhetoric mud with mantras of Platonic verses negating Plato and each other, as nothing really matters, the truth and such – delectable only when arguable.