Where stuff happens

Somewhere in the bone encased starfield we call home, exists a psychic structure, nebulous yet intricate, luminous and vibrant, fleet of form, parsing time, perhaps its definition, autonomous and yet dependent on our being, contingent on one’s hearing and faculty of recall, yet existing independently, a cerebral tenant 

The host and benefactor of this locus of the improbable and miraculous is no more than an assemblage of fluids and minerals in an often quite attractive bag, surging with emotions, most likely confused, dependent for survival on externalities, with which it communes or may consume, before inevitably being, itself, consumed 

This happy equilibrium provides an existential day-trip for the psychic tourist through a nano-moment of the busy cosmos which, frankly, couldn’t give a damn if tourist visited or not

But at least the visitors have each other to share, compare and contemplate their schitzophrenial context and from whom to steal the other’s allocation, or terminate said musings by the simple and expedient act of puncturing their bag and letting out the fluids, on evidence this might be the prime objective

The arbitrary nature of the situation guides me when I feel compelled to say things aren’t so bad, things are never bad unless they are and for many this is true, notwithstanding, sympathising if not empathising and acknowledging that matters might be worse for this assemblage of fluids and emotions, etc

Thus inter-cranial-stellar-recall, nebular, of arranged vibrating sense data (v.s.) brings comfort to this curious being, poised at the centre of its centrifuge, a palliative context in which it searches for a trace of meaning, lying on its metaphoric existential beach, accommodating its ineluctable demise, after all we are but ghosts passing through a sordid membrane where shit is seen to happen