In Vegas, the hollow of all culture drained. The holographic fantasies of an AI supercomputer too shallow to query the pesky packet we call the individual with all his silently flowing tributaries. Minstrel forth homo-sapien! Exfoliate and graze and whore out your euthanized will, deaden the pulse to a drip and be forgotten. This world you participate in, that you are in cahoots with, is sickly smiling. I see the vacant stare of the servants that outnumber us as we vacation onward. I see the cogs of this smoothing machine and how many lives it ruins to get it running. The ornate surfaces are paper thin, the varicose veins spray-tanned away. In Vegas suicide is sensible, the air, perfumed with it.
Escape to where exactly? The world penetrates us, we are mere carriers, carrying point to point ideals that are not really ours, to quibble over the most useless of questions, to oblige the schedule of some grand design to keep us pickled in our own juices and amused to death. Give me the substance this world passes by, the substance it requires only nominally in service of an anecdote. The artists conspire against this world, to depict the undiluted life, and it is in the artist's depiction of the world that salvation is made. Not eternal salvation, but in doses. I will take the Las Vegas of the arts and through the imagined possibilities of the imagined soul find a place to begin with substance. The aching of the world is not for me to heal, but the aching of my heart is.
To get along in this world you must indulge your own fantasy, ride out the furthest tributaries, past the desert of industry and its stench of money, build your own home from the salvageable remains. Salvation is created and that is the point, so you may carry it with you wherever you choose to go.
Escape to where exactly? The world penetrates us, we are mere carriers, carrying point to point ideals that are not really ours, to quibble over the most useless of questions, to oblige the schedule of some grand design to keep us pickled in our own juices and amused to death. Give me the substance this world passes by, the substance it requires only nominally in service of an anecdote. The artists conspire against this world, to depict the undiluted life, and it is in the artist's depiction of the world that salvation is made. Not eternal salvation, but in doses. I will take the Las Vegas of the arts and through the imagined possibilities of the imagined soul find a place to begin with substance. The aching of the world is not for me to heal, but the aching of my heart is.
To get along in this world you must indulge your own fantasy, ride out the furthest tributaries, past the desert of industry and its stench of money, build your own home from the salvageable remains. Salvation is created and that is the point, so you may carry it with you wherever you choose to go.
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