Maybe one day we’ll reach a point when all possible frequencies have been recorded, every combination of words written. Sometimes I wonder if it has already arrived. A frumpy man in the elevator told me he needs to do some housecleaning. “My closets look alcoholic,” he said.
I still have vivid dreams that my mother is alive; I find her sitting at a kitchen table in a tiny house by the sea, living under an assumed name. The house is always made of freshly chopped wood.
Voltaire believed “true prayer lies not in asking for a violation of natural law but in the acceptance of natural law,” and Kant insisted “morality is not the doctrine of how we may make ourselves happy, but how we may make ourselves worthy of happiness.” And last night, a skittish young man with fantastic hair said, “God’s probably just some creep looking over us like a petri dish or some shit.”
Turned on the television so I could ignore it.
