Humility is a purification through the elimination in oneself of imaginary good. Where “I love our protesters” means exactly opposite. Emerson's eyeball grows bulbous with anger. A murderer preens before mirrors, then captures himself on his phone. We no longer see through our eyes. They've been taken, arranged along paths in a sculpture garden: all gaze and no refraction. Eye walls. There's blood in the stalls, blood under the sinks, blood by the bar, blood pulsing in our ears. We need to know his motive. But meaning has no purchase now. You can't buy it on-line without a license. My life had stood. And hers, and his. We've outsourced death's solitude. They-died-together is as good as it gets.
2 months ago