Series of Dreams

A series of thoughts, series of dreams, series of selves and beings. A stringing together of things that no one who wanted to string anything together could ever come up with, or would ever want to. A series of images so disjointed that the mind recoils out of not wanting to participate in insanity. Out of refusing to confront itself further. The rational mind, what it wants, and the comfort of what it takes and protects against. The concrete dam of language and steel shell of the unwilling body. A corpse formed out of words that cannot be said. Faces which rearrange themselves depending on the minute, hour, or are nothing but shifting: like sand in the wind, like eddies and crosscurrents, like landscapes observed over millennia; ordered only in the meta-reality of the geoscopic view but never from face to face. Memories that don’t go together, one thing after another, but never singularity. Instead a thousand things, and none of them go together, none of them have any magnetism or obvious attraction. There isn’t even anything to sort out, and that is what should scare you (though that isn’t for me to say). There isn’t even anything to sort out. I’m still going to try. Trying to arrange a ceaseless shifting parade of images that never remains still, never sorts out, never solidifies, never means a thing and laughs outrageously at all attempts to inscribe form upon it.