Something of Import

I was going to write a critique of the American obsession with vigilante justice and situational morality and neat story arches that allow you to free fall into your own value system, but then I started watching TeeVee. That was a joke, that last part, but seriously, I was. The deadly sins don't stop at seven. You can hang yourself from the flagpole with your pride waving in the breeze. The imprinting, the patterning, the genuine desire to become who you have always wanted. What is the actual difference between changing yourself and hiding behind a self-made mask. The cool math boy scene without a single female voice. I suppose muses don't understand copyright laws. The desire is always greater when fueled by failures of the past. These vectors of memory lurking in someone else's detritus. We're all dumpster diving for clarity, dusting off the poor little rich boy mythos of our prophets and poster-children grown up and discarded. Going through the cracked and weary spines of our underlined atheistic dogma that took root in academia and followed us into "the real world". "Abandon all hope" amended to "Ride it Out".

I just want to write a story about the salesmen of the apocalypse. I want to use the stories I've heard, the themes I've loved to build something I can be proud of. I dont like to delve too deeply in this format, out loud in the swirling electronic graveyard. But I suppose whispering to a void is better than talking to myself. I talk to you to tell you about the people who inspire me in their own indulgent ways. The select phrases repeated, your catch (and release) phrases, the fazes of the moon. Whoever gets the most stage runs the risk of the bad review. The hurt lingers far beyond the wisdom of overpriced tea bags. Your faith in the future sustains me. The desire to never stop: traveling, smoking, drinking, learning, moving. It is kind of reassuring to know that we can live a fairy tale, we just have to be prepared for the costume changes. It's kind of a one man show.