I still admire those who make contact with the world but can’t explain their methods. Call it flux movements or soap bubble shimmers. Nabokov described a crystal go-between that separates wolves in tall grasses from wolves in tall stories. He said prismatism is the art of literature. It’s also one of philosophy’s sweeter faces, and it’s the only way to write death, since it can’t be denoted. My mom’s uncle promised her he’d tell her about the afterlife if he could.
Death is the fool on the hill. It confounds predictive capitalism. This is just another sign that capital only exists to ward off existential terror. A weak amulet. Death is stupid.
To help me accept it, I try to believe that all explanations are equally true or false. Every unsolvable X is its own placeholder, but what they conceal is essentially the same. We don’t know if it exists.
Of course the seams between life and death are as discreet as those that run between words and their effects. Any sham of a distinction vanishes in time. The tracks are lost in the lightest snowfall.
Love me as radically anti-transcendent. A real Deleuzian. I’m not falling in love with (X).
Still unspoken words push the blood through my veins. I’m young and dumb enough to want people to mean what they say. A child again, or a sadist trying to develop empathy for the gagged and bound. A Pascalian bargain: I keep listening for God in case he calls.