There is something, constantly out of reach in Cienfuegos music, almost always to be at an arms length. Isn’t this ironic, everything is at an arms length. Muscles unravel in my back and god, walking through the city, I feel empty inside.
Kiekregaard once said ‘I go fishing for a thousand monsters in the depths of my soul’ or something like that.
I read the Sickness Unto Death and I was pissed off at the end and had to pleasure myself three times just to move again. I’d rather be caught in a dream somewhere or sometime. I’d like to think of my memories but the world is spinning too fast and I still haven’t woken up from the party.
Only certain text messages resonate like a falling stack of books. I laugh and get ready for the night and smile. Smoke herb and drink old, cheap gin until my teeth feel brittle yet still. Speeding down the cold highway with everyone in the car, a certain heaviness occupies where I was always taught my soul is and I sink deeper into the chair of the speeding automobile until I disappear.
The end is never near, nor is it amorphous. We know the end. It is everywhere. A documentary told me that black holes start from a singularity at the beginning of a dying super nova. As the star dies, the black hole grows, energy becomes weaker until gravity takes its toll. Then an explosion happens, that still, no atomic bomb can match. Whether the satellite planets become knocked out of orbit is what I am most interested in.
Night never ends.