11/05/09: There’s really nothing to sweat. We are all too young to die. I like the many names and crimes this world contains. I want to delete all my grand pronouncements from journals and blogs and comment feeds and so forth. Just to hold my breath and know I’ll break into the marble banquet hall one day need be enough, lover. ¶ In 2015 the military will let me go. I’ll get my master’s at a slightly alternative age. Planning for a future in your world used to seem so pointless. ¶ I think the world of words would be more palatable were it lacking certain elitist twats and would-be Canadians. ¶ I wrote this on waterproof paper a few hours after risking my life by way of heights in pursuit of this grand tower. ¶ By the time I get to your war in Afghanistan it will no longer be my job to kill people–at least not by definition–just to help the trigger-pullers talk to each other, and I’ll be the best in the damn business. ¶ In February I intend to have quit smoking and be truly progressing toward a body I’d want you to examine at my funeral. ¶ Dying seems so mundane. Once I wanted people to remember my name but these days I feel more selective about who my friends and enemies are. For instance, if I don’t know your name, where do you get off being a prick to me? Seems so last year. This was the year to be hated, by far–next year these bastards better fall in line. ¶ I’ve gotten more reading done out here in the boondocks than I had since the spring. One day they’ll learn to make coffee and I won’t feel so lonely. ¶ Part of my clarity is born of sobriety. ¶ I wouldn’t give it all to have what you’ve been given. I don’t feel sorry for you. I don’t worry, cry, or fear death anymore. ¶ There aren’t any threads running through this prose. This isn’t a discussion. Earlier I was angry because someone tried to derail my mission. As always, they saw it my way eventually. ¶ You’d never say that to my face, toad. I’d pinch you to remind you that this is real. ¶ That music just made me sick. Really. ¶ Eternity doesn’t remember last week. One day the new society will comb history for heroes for whom to build monuments. All the time you spent looking out for your goofy self won’t earn you even a moment’s consideration. You’ve lost your fucking mind. Your eventual obscurity suits you like puberty does an eventually beautiful girl. You’ll seem so common. A footnote in another person’s biography. ¶ I like to think there are restless souls looking for me, the lost, but I know there is nothing special about this decade. ¶ Don’t forget who the bad people are. We can’t go back. It’s too late for surrender. I swear I’m still here for you. I am.
