Ah, the old familiar twine issues forth from the squawk-box. Batten it down, folks, the White returns soon. Lives in flux, positions tweaked, but this train keeps moving on.
Out there, we sing songs of Disorder and Oneness. There isn't any rhyme to it. Nothing fits together, but if that's true, then it all works. It's all just f-stops on the reel anyway... just one long unending serial, written with such irregularity as to make Malick proud. The Great American Escapade, featuring The World. We stop here, briefly, but only to fuel the tanks and change the tires.
Pausing for reflection, here in the Waist-Land, offers us a chance for peace and re-organization of memories passed. Did that really happen? Did I honestly turn a corner to see a Yellowfin the length of a Buick having its enormous guts spilled onto the grate at our feet? Did a man lead a monkey in a diaper through an obstacle course to the delighted cackling of children? And what of it? Nothing's ever going to make sense if we don't give it some normalcy to pit it against. Buy a house in Robbinsdale, then all of a sudden your college days are looking better and better. So to the bank we go. And we come to withdraw.
The people out there, they are nothing like us. But you know what? I don't need us anymore. There is very little left to gain. The brain only expands and contracts with changes in elevation, at least at this age. So open it up. Get up to 10,000 and look out at the Shire. If we stop for a second to breathe, we know that it's always there, always a massive pull towards an infinite path. I don't need to live in all worlds, but I know I can't live in just one.
And so, as the white blanket falls, coating and sealing another space and time, we no longer wonder what it is we crave. We no longer search, wandering through caverns of thought fraught with pitfalls and Precious Moments. It's clearer and clearer every day.
The Sun guides the way, but the Monkey Man marks the spot.
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