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December 8, 2020
What is unpleasant that we can chew from our guts and spew to the galactic compost heap, that the steaming offal might spark a new kind of eye that sees through the chaos, under the decay and crowding arrogance sitting so proudly on the smoldering heap as our master of mind and soul. This is our bedrock, dissolved as it were by the acid of our cleverness. We divide and dissemble. We clamber the time. There's no dawdling, no picnic lunches on rest stops along the galactic highway. The only remaining franchise is the one clocking time in our guts.