The universe is an infinite amount of possibilities, perhaps possibilities that are reliving themselves. What if I am in fact a recreation of myself? What if in my previous incarnation I was a flower or a stone or something? We don’t know anything really. And as I type, freely, without will, I’m not quite sure where I’m going with this which is quite the apt reflection of my life as it now. The possibilities are endless. Or do they have and end? Are they end-full? Full of ends. Like my ashtray. One after the other after the other. People of and around my age sit, expecting knowledge and wisdom and appreciating every little bit of voiced air that passes through my lips. For them it’s knowledge, for me it’s acquirement. One after the other. It’s quite the microcosm at this institution of language giving; people come and go, they enter and pass through your life, exchange e-mails in the warm glow of endings that are fixed in a positive peak. Perhaps that how life should be lived. A series of positive endings. Because nothing is an end is it? It’s a cycle. Regurgitating cycle. Maybe, then, the point is to try your hardest to stop the cycle in its tracks. To release the air from the tyres, to puncture oneself in to something new. You could just get a puncture repair kit, fix the puncture and be on your way but it’d be the same path as before, right? Maybe it’s time to discard the bi-cycle and find a new route. The beginning has already begun but … where does it end? That’s just it. It doesn’t.
So, fuck it and dance.