Monday, September 13, 2004


I’m bummed out about being bummed out, worried about being worried, and fed up with being fed up. All my feelings have feelings attached to them and those feelings make me feel weird about what I’m feeling.

I’ve said all this before and I mean it again. The same thoughts bedevil me once more and keep me awake when I can’t sleep. What I mean is what I mean; I am what I am; and all this talk is just so many words.

I keep thinking that I had thought this all through. I remember when I used to remember what it was all about. That was around the same time I had that dream that I was dreaming.

I look in the mirror and see an image of myself looking in the mirror. The front and back of my head extends off into infinity, but my face is always in the way when I try to see beyond.

The snake is eating its tail and the fire consumes itself. I don’t like that I don’t like this, though I certainly love what I love.

I wonder what I wonder about but I’m sure that I’m certain about everything about which I have no doubts. That, however is a vanishingly small set of things whose membership includes only those things not included in the set.

I don’t know what I’m talking about here and I can’t understand a word that I’m saying. I only laugh at things that are laughable and only tear-jerkers make me cry.

All the pain that I feel hurts; every place that I’m tickled is ticklish. When I have an itch it’s because it itches. Every scratch on my body is somewhere I’ve been scratched.

The reason this essay makes you sleepy is because of its dormative powers. The explanation that explains why you are bored is that it’s boring.

This piece began at the beginning; it ends right here at the end.


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