We are a culture of collectively useless maps.
Temporary tracings of lead-lined roads destined for incomplete blurbs in fractured future histories.
The End Is Always Nigh.
A permanent thrust.
An endless surge.
A future replete with the repeated follies of past failures.
A perpetual one-night stand.
I think about making lists, lists like the above, but I do not make them. I have a million of them, ready to pen at a moments notice, in sequential order no less, should I find a free leaf of paper and a pen I trust.
I suppose I am intimidated by notebooks, piled and priced so attractively in stores worldwide, so naked and inviting, so full of potential. So much so it mocks my own, I have to avoid the thought of forests themselves. Trees mock me.
So I turn to women. Their skin my scroll, my nails, my eyes, my breath. The ink, my member. The implement of my only truth, scribing toward a sum greater than mere physical bodies tumbling in the halflight of the visible spectrum. Somehow further than the flimsy synapse lapse of post-coital glow. The writing on the wall, or the sheet, as it were.