So—it comes to this. I have a terrible migraine and can think of nothing else to type about. Outside, the initially pleasant evening shakes off yet another imposing tendril of contemplative noise. The moon, silver as a spoon, blows its erudite-sounding nose. Sniff. I can perceive the warm exhale of tiredness all around and the unspoken nature of the universe simmering in the air. Take it in, darling. One fine day this will all grind to a lovely, indiscriminate halt. It will happen in the near future, I believe. Unfortunately, this will, too, interfere with my plans to engineer a serendipitous escapade, an adventure, as it were, to the ironic core, (the node, I think, or nucleus) of the solar system. Space. Imagine that! Everything up there spinning round and round. You see, quotidian things hinge upon certain laws and/or tendencies to pivot, turn, and draw objects close to-gether, but this is not at all true for quarts, higgs-bosoms, and other frighteningly minuscule particulae. Think about quantum tunneling! Yes, matter is always always always getting further away from itself, it grows hotter in some places and colder simultaneously, true, but it is utterly inevitable that a very big explosion (VBE) already in progress is on its way to our exact location in the cosmos. Well, I wish not to alarm you; nevertheless, it will trouble no one if you go on privately worrying about it at your leisure. Tap-tap-tap-tap. What’s this? The pain behind my eyes has stumbled across a miniature hammer and set of nails and has diligently gone to work! Tap. Sure, I would like everyone to agree with me all the time, but much more than that I yearn for the collapse of our economy. It would bring me so much joy to see the Earth, in a fiscal sense, flipped positively inside-out. I hope one day to own a house, an expensive painting, and three enormous flat-screen televisions. Until that fateful day, however, inside my head, a banner declaring the likelihood of my concluding internal inadequacies hangs dutifully between a pair of imaginary trees. There are no birds; there is no wind. Below, an imaginary poodle lounging in the shade bow-wow-wows with cruel intonation. Figuratively speaking, I wish to die.

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