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More On How To Run This Joint
Well, take this as an auxiliary introduction. But it correctly reflects the type of middle earth I musically inhabit at the 4th prime of my adolescence. For the record, I was completely sober when I was writing these lines. It’s all about music.
The human brain is a no-cherry-picking collector. It’s an impudent vacuum of what it unconditionally perceives. Only if it was up to us to keep the positive data immune for future use and send the rest down the drain, the voyage could have been more pleasant somehow. But it is painfully realistic how there is no yin when there is no yang. The collector prioritizes of course. It keeps the more helpful on top of the stack and pushes the wind chimes, the church bells, the truck howls, and the factory workers’ chatter noise down the unwinding spiral.
The morning brings a partial wash, a soon-to-be-given-away oblivion to what the night had gathered. But it is alcohol to the downtrodden shipwrecked. We, the desperate shackled, are going nowhere. The brain keeps collecting. It will be image galore before we know it mercilessly scathing our schemes. How we react when the sun sinks in the muddy lake is unfathomably distant from the person we were at dawn. I would like to stick to the morning optimism. Try as you might! But…
