I've got this last sorrowful sense of what it means to be someone somewhere, as the rockets fall like rain and the cosmos spins
like a fucking hurricane. It's the secret of the man in black, the fox who never speaks, the pulse of humanity as the avalanche
of avarice and hope crashes down a mountainside of vaunted vanity in all it's cold, gross and grinding gravity. I can smell the
guns, hear the earth echo beneath boots, watch the launch of jet fighters and the way tanks advance. I am as the sun, the wind,
the dead, over and over again. I have gone mad.
You really should put down that fucking alcohol old friend. You're like an idiot who built a raft of logs and rags, sailing
further and further from what's sane all the time. The slash of the coast is a sparkle and a whine.
No. You're wrong. I'm right on course, the stars have carved a path straight as a razor. I'm going home. The obliteration of
my consciousness is the true heaven, holding on is what's wrong. Raargh.
Another drink?
Yesssss.