I'm navigating crosstown from my piece of the sky to the situationist bar a bit out of my element perhaps but maintaining a participatory distance from the twin impediments of reason and mystery while being drawn into the argument like some cartoon character hastily scrawled in the margin for a quick fix to a sticky predicament. The clouds overhead are digitized striation mappings upon disillusion. God, that tragicomic category-concept mistake, asserts its right to wrong. It will take a miracle to make me believe in miracles. As it is, my senses have no filters.
People appear as luminous eggs softly bobbing along the earthly stratum of the energy grid.
A beatific salesclerk neatly persuades me to buy into the halogenic radiance of her smile, a series of explosions housed in one magnificent chamber. One knows the consequences of a raving night spent in the coign of wisdom-saturated scraps of manuscript or iconic cardboard characters, crawling through the stacks, be wailing the lack of spiritual nourishment. The irony of the situation not unnoticed by those who wait. So, a roiling sphere, I roll into the bar. Nursing my wound, I shine the distance from the table to the bar.