We benefit, so we the Civilized opine, from an innate
propensity for density, as we incline it seems inevitably
from the innocence of infancy to entering the intimate
immensities of later life: the tangled thoroughfares
of complicated love, and omnisexual perversity: thought
immersed in irony and paradox and dissonance, brought
to encounter the impenetrable obfuscations in more
serious investigations of, well, anything. We seem to think
that clarity in innocence is largely lies believed in ignorance.
And that painfully attaining incremental revelations through
essential rites of passage (which mainly mean humiliations)
from and of and with relations, amorous, professional
and otherwise, can lead us to a wiser clarity at last: a clarity
as vast as the complexities of Cosmos but transparent –
indeed, apparently osmotically available to the Enlightened.
No wonder we’re so frightened. But pretty funny, honey.
In fact, hilarious – indeed, nefarious. It amounts to this:
We invent and then ferment what we believe, then we
imbibe it: we’re drinking our own piss. Therefore, of course,
we tend not to get fat. There’s something to be said for that.
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