through the pattern of noise and language

And so you search. You attempt to find something under their words. And this person -- this loved one, this friend, this person who is merely an acquaintance -- is speaking to you. And your mind, the subconscious component of your mind, is analyzing, surveying the words and the thoughts and ideas conveyed by these words for justification -- a vindication for your paltry, sad and selfish behavior. And the words are pouring from his or her lips -- the nouns, the verbs, all of it just filling your ears and then, through the pattern of noise and language, you find it. You cling to it. It being the reason, this nugget of humanity, of human frailty. Like some crazed hunter of beast and peasant, you pin it to the painted cardboard scenery, the artificial background of some Hollywood monstrosity that is life and

you crucify it. You smother yourself in the blood and excrement and milky fluid of this life... this being... this perceived animation of all that is real and you grasp it, you drink from it as if it were the tit of some holy mother... you drown yourself in the pious splendor of mother's milk. But you are so broken and damaged that you cannot see what you are doing or what you have become. Your eyes have been stained and raped by the blinking circus of technology; your senses dulled by pharmacology's response to the Modern American Condition. Perhaps you do see it -- rarely. Perhaps you catch yourself in the mirror; a fleeting glimpse of the being that occupies your body... under the skin and behind the cosmetically adjusted structure, you see it. A flash. But you don't dare acknowledge it. No, it was a trick of light and shadow. No, that wasn't me. But it is you... it's all over you, inside you. And so you seek defense. An explanation. An excuse for your actions and doings. Indeed, it is a subconscious search, a desire required by the broken pattern of your behavior, your identity, but, nonetheless, you scour and search for proof, for validity of your existence inside the words of

this person... this person speaking to you... the lover... the stranger. Because if he or she speaks of a trait, a piece you can grasp and identify, it must therefore prove your essence... that detestable nucleus of your actuality.

xx