And if they do…
Will they please come forward and tell me what they know?
to ask, and
Nothing waits for you, and this, the now, the now is, it’s now, here, now, gone..
The present of this now is in your hands, and of course all of this talking is only a story, a pointless grouping of words causing sentences to form a concept in your mind of what your brain shall define as a book. Only a story of sorts, that I, me, the writer, the clown, the age old prince of a new star; a man, a simple folksy kinda man, a ghost of an echo of a ol’ dog man born of an age old coward man, and yes I’m a coward.
I’m a rebel, a dork, a bad vibe bringer, a story teller, a Utopian drinker, a wise laugh coming out from the broken speaker. The writer is a campfire singer, a loner, a fearful creature, an American loser, a lazy and skinny smoking man who stands in crowds and hides among boyish American flocks who all seem to love one thing, and what that is, what this one thing is, well I have no fucking clue. Nobody will tell me about anything. So what?
This is the end of the story. Almost, the end of this book. Almost, and well these turning of pages have been just a sort of story about places and names, memories, dates, normal things like so and so, and also its been about how everybody always creeps up on me, about how I always listen to music and the sleigh bells of a collection of white noise that cuts through every particle in my body without asking me if it feels good or not, and no, it doesn’t feel that great.
I’m sorry, this could have been said from the very beginning, you know, what this book was about, but I didn’t have a clue until now, a clue that really, that this whole damn book, is only a narration about everything, about the breakdown of social order, and it’s funny, right?