Writing...

What does writing save? Who is dying? What is saved by writing? Why write about things? Are they going away? What will writing do? Why write? Why save writing?

Language lubricates, optimizes. No transformation, only pushing the envelope. It orders. Make life a little bearable and get things done. Fair enough.

Small things get lost easily. Look up. Just look up small-thing. Only small things can have an ↑.Up.

How to optimize when accelerating? Not knowing the destination, and knowledge works backwards, to conserve what is.

How to sew with a needle that has a tip so miniscule that it exists only in theory?

Speculation speculates speculation. What exists, must be very old. Perhaps very tired too.

Who would have thought that with cooling earth, thinking will emerge? … as if waiting for the right moment. An Outside oozes out of a coagulated mind, emptying man out eventually. Nothing here escapes gravity. Not even Nothing.

What a beautiful graveyard! Even Outside is stuck here.

How do you miss somebody, or something? Miss, what is not? Not and miss do not go together. Missing the missing? Missing what? A missing Missing?

Unresolved, I laugh foolishly. There’s a hole in my tongue. Let me show you.

I know that I have no fucking idea.

Note to myself: I know something then... and my knowledge is as inutile. I, the two legged animal, speak with a whistle and laugh twice.

Chores

What is good? Something pleasant, even a thought in that direction? Housekeeping and art. Some money to pay for things I need, and a few things I can give for money. Things which I have in excess, and others may want them.

Housekeeping

My house is a mess, and I don't want to paint anymore. I like washing dishes, and some money comes from doing that. I should bathe more. It kills bacteria. They break the flesh, making people come undone. There are millions of them per square foot of life. I don't think I have that much, maybe half a million maybe? Money also makes people millionaires. A million Bacteria on the other hand, make people smell bad. Half a million bacteria cannot make flesh stink from a foot away. I do not know anyone who is that close to me except my cat. I can’t tell, because we smell the same. There’s always something sticking on his teeth and a chewed up gum in my pocket.

What good can be done other than eating someone or plants? You can also write about it. Writing is more exciting than rubbing yourself with soap two times a day.

My cat hunts. He brought me a bird today. I cleaned his feather, wrapped him in a piece of cloth, and deposited in the garbage bin. Cleaning isn't for the birdy anymore, but for handlers. No one wants to die of bacteria, yet keep them in their gut. A million a square foot.

People eat in clean dishes and return them full of bacteria. I clean them, make some money, and pay rent to my land lady who loves the restaurant I work at. She makes about a million bacteria and her average bill is $150. I clean her dishes. Since I get paid to do this, I can say that I sell them back to her, but at a much lower price— $17.80 an hour. That’s a lot of money. I clean 8-12 tables in an hour. That’s lots of bacteria.

Sometimes, I don't want to wash dishes, but it doesn't matter. I sometimes don't want to bathe and eat too. Or talk to people. I do all this anyway. But I don't hunt and kill birds. That's my cat.

There are baby garden weavers everywhere in the house. There were more but most of them got eaten by their siblings. The survivors are the size of a ballpen tip each, and each has eaten a lot of such ballpen tips. I often do not want to eat, not even bugs. Not do the dishes or take a bath. But I end up writing about it anyway. I write about this sometimes.

There's no writing-writing, but writing about pleasantries and stuff. I'd be eating my siblings if I do not write, take a bath, or clean my house. Sometimes, only think about all this and write. Eating bugs doesn’t sound good, and at some point, that becomes a chore too.

Bacterias are done for. Death is, when all chores are done. There's a lot to tend to, before you come undone. Then you go home.