A thing is only a thing in that it is discrete and individuated. A row of ninety-nine uniform, identical bottles might be on that prosaic wall but I'm taking ONE down and passing it around, therefore it is a categorical imperative that I enjoy the capacity to make the distinction "Yes, this one participates in 'bottle-ness' but in its this-ness it is a singularity for reasons we can neither codify nor comprehend."
I am a beautiful and unique snow-flake, in love with a mother-f*ckin' pistol on the West Coast, butchering a Toby Kieth song in a bar on a Thursday night.
This past Thursday night. Wondering who wrote a song about Kabbalistic numerological drinking, passing last supper style a beverage as old as the Tigris and Euphrates.
Where do these things come from?
I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say here people, my galloping ego seems to have gotten a couple of furloughs ahead of me.
I'm not sure I know about what I write, but I do write about what I know. Pennsylvania University students, a girl name Jeanine who studied graphic design, Tom singing an Elvis song (and not too badly, good key for him) and a certain amount of certainty that I can think myself a king of infinite space were it not for the fact that I've been having some wild dreams that scrape that threshold you can sense every now and again, beyond which is the party on the white shores. I know the economy is in the trash bag in the trunk of the Cadillac but I am smiling. I'm shaking hands.
Everyone is there.
EVERYONE.
And they all look great.
It was a very specific dream.
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