You may have noticed, or perhaps you were trying very deliberately not to, despairing voicelessly in your inmost parts. I think I’m back after twenty-two months away. I’ve missed you all. However, after a protracted and immiserating recess wherein I felt rather bereft of character and quality, the fire in my belly seems to once again be burning with its longstanding and incoherent combination of sentimentalizing gratitude for all of the things and all of the people and a kind of ersatz curmudgeonliness indignant at how much idiocy and selfishness continue to assert themselves against the former. Enjoy diagramming that sentence.
So, anyway, you’ll never escape this my convoluted prose purpled with the battering of a thousand literary allusions and an ineradicable commitment to our heathen lord Anachronos.
I found a lapel pin, which I still need to acquire as a generalized response to nearly everything that annoys me about our era, not least within my own self, that reads “But did you die”. No, I did not.
And, it is true that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stro… well, leaves you with trauma and — let’s be honest — trauma makes you interesting. Is there a worse fate than to be well-adjusted, without wound or injury, and boring as all fuck?