When the music changes, the walls of the city shake.

Waking up from a fitful sleep. This is the routine. Of a madman, an insomniac. A brilliant mind who seeks for some kind of certainty in the ether, chasing signals, tuning the instrument to something not fully broken through.

The Arecibo Observatory has collapsed. It was a delicate monster, suspended in the air sending out a lonely beacon to some hoped for observer that might bring us news of unaloneness. It was a movie star of male heroic idolatry. Waiting too long for the girl to call back, its smashed equipment will lie as a crumbled monument to hope and desperation in equal co-mingling. I laugh in self-defense at the thought I destroyed it out of vanity and not apathetic unnurturing. It had a good run.

Today in history, the world’s first human heart transplant. I wonder immediately if the slathering likes of slime lawyer Rudy Giuliani and his crew of creepy comedy scenes bombarding the media with lies these days are indicative of the type of would call such miracles fake news, thus pre-venting them from occuring. When I stay awake for days, I fight off the fear of losing my mind in the nervous energy of possibility. Fear is the emotion that makes mistakes. That is what it is. It is useless.

Or is it. Is your over-emotional resistance to the future a sign of some manner of viscerally charged defense system deep in your gaseous gut. Sure, the future is where we all die. That is what it is.

Something else on my morning news feed the robot reads to me. Andrew Jackson was a real American man. He kills thousands for states rights and hating on the natives. This is what heroes do. That is what it is. An argument of whether people love America if they know such things, that this is heroism, our history, our sacred monsters. Or if you learn a little bit about your beautiful homeland today like a diligent citizen and suddenly you want a native girl who offered her heart like a fool, naive and friendly, to help your explorers, to be the face on your 20 dollar bills. Surely this is a move in the right direction.

Less guilt on how monstrous the system, its currencies righteously, inevitably function. And when the telescope collapses to all sunshine and rainbows, maybe then, and only then, the aliens will pick up the phone and ET will bring the flower children back to life.

Naive simpletons, these are monsters too. Rudy Giuliani at least has the guts to fart in public. To let the world know how you feel, how wrong and dumb and loud you can be. This is heroism.

Perhaps I didn’t make it to bed last night after all. What a nightmare scenario.

I’ll tell you what, and let this confession be the bet. The things I am willing to destroy, these will be on the opposite end of the scale of the things I do truly love.

I confess this with the chopped slab of greasy meat face pressed to the window of the shop where the claw game I addictively paw and toy at in the search for some kind of supernatural hope of pulling myself out of this machine rests.

I think I need a new heart. One rule remains: Never Trust An Addict.

The news from the robot voice tells me the future leader man is smarter. He no longer will build with brick and stone a physical wall. This is nonsensical. This is the twentieth century. Building a border wall is laughable, the news man indulges himself in his language to inform us. The future leader man will use state of the art, ‘futuristic, dystopian’ drones, facial recognition, data scraping from devices, more indulgences so that no one can deny the heart is transplanted. He is the one we deserve now. And so, everywhere we go, we, the targets, must learn to run faster. Be more fatuous and gassy. Be greater in our naivete and sunshine bearing. We must be the new dogmatic shills of light.

What you need, you lonely soul… is to get out more. To follow not the white rabbit, but the tattoed girl who wants to party. Rest and Relaxation will do the all work and no play boy his only good. The machine will destroy itself left to churn against its contradictions.
A Good Run, Run, Run. A Good Run, Run.

The Future Cannot Handle The Hopeful Man.

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