though sleep i know the nature of my own moral delusion and by sleep deprivation i have found that past the animus and the manifested possibility, there is only a pain from detachment or dissolution in the richness of feeling.
reality distracts us, its animated nature hurts us or describes us at best even to our selves but it never makes us anything more then what we are, it does not carve us from the block of possibility, we are the outgrowth of it not its plaything. we can behave with great determination and live in the nature of the law or we can numb our sensation of reality and play out a part half-assed and dreaming- it makes no difference. the film never stops.

compassion is the only drug that medicates this truth and sensations are the only answer to the riddle of what-is-happening.
but just past the film that we collectively write our own parts in- the sort machine of Burroughs- under the the flood of noise from many people dreaming out their lives; there is a truth which each of us run from.
the inescapable reality is that we are all 'dying animals on a doomed planet'.


how do you accept that?

Distraction.