The End Event

“It would seem that things are getting worse. But nevertheless, I do see hope. In point of fact, sometime around the unfortunate C incident—that contemporary castration of humanity and the systematic eradication of synesthesia that Consciousness demanded—a true synesthete came forth, blessed with luscious cock in its prime and oozing sexuality: bereft of shield, sword in hand, I watched as he slew these mongrels and their punctles.

"Indeed, this was no ordinary man—he was a survivor and a savior, a liar and a layman, a shaman and a sophist, a wayman and a warrior, a beauty and a beast. This was synesthesia incarnate, in all his glory.”

This, readers, were the initial jottings in what was to be a published memoir of my blissful tripping days. At this juncture, I began to lose touch so thoroughly, I know not whether sense came through. For the interested reader, I have kept the rest of this particular event intact as an endnote to this post.

Now, reader, I must beg your pardon—this is goodbye. I fear that my body is just not built for this life. It seems my war is in vain. Life is a zero sum game, the source of my ceaseless horror and utter castration. My shoulders simply cannot bear the weight; our mutated brains weigh too god dam much! And my senses can’t event taste, much less breathe the air of synesthesia.

And do not worry reader—I plan to go gloriously. An overdose of epic proportions. Indeed, perhaps I will have a few moments of true synesthetic being with the world. A going with of worthy palpations.

The Event, Part 2:

Um, yea. I see a fugue now, a fractal fugue folding and folding, and shaping and shipping away in the clouds—how I love this rainbow ontology. Heidegger—seeing, smelling, shitting—on acid… There is just no other way—he saw too clearly. He saw too clearly… And Nabokov too. Just no way. Those… um….

Ah, yes—in a fit of blissful ecstasy folding and folding—they’re all gone. I see a land bereft of castrato, bereft of virulent plagues and consciousness and punctles and all those gloomy folk. Yes, here I see a reclassification, a new species becoming before my very eyes. This is living now. Tripping on stripping signs to be—synesthesia happening, or… yes, yes, yes—this is living. This is living!

A teethy electric surge, some trees and, humming birds, humming honey, strumming tummy, yummy sunny, sonny sonnet punching punctles...