He woke up and watched clouds of fog rise from the river and into the mountain. He rarely looked on like this, hopeful for a vision from some translation of gideons verse. He stooped low and scattered pages hoping a word would connect and give him that enlightenment he so craved. 

 

He understood his limits. He imagined picture books and old side-stepping hobos like a Christmas play. It spoke to him. Sinister he thought that the moment of today was a military issue memory. A social law built into those early television shows that prepares us to see the world in a similar fashion. They were all experts of their weird entanglements made by biological promises. Social spasms, cognitive and behavioral malfunctions because of the disconnect between the physical reality and the expected experience. 

 

“How do people justify such horrible things?” 

He stared at the smoke as it flooded the air and crumpled the pages of poems and advertisements into the fire.

 

No one answered his question. The light of the fire was warm and his memory of essays written on the English language seemed to carve out of it.

 

Disparity in class and differences in knowledge. The ability to compose and understand the automatic processes of production that underly culture, the human brain and the self. Creating involves absorbing, manipulating, and expelling information from the outside world. 

 

The architecture already is provided to us

 

Let it show.

 

He remembered the words of an old tv show. Bad actors delivering their lines without deliberation and as it appeared any conscious knowledge of their significance.

 

He dragged out his morning, like a butcher flaying out pig skin on the kitchen table. It hurt the way he way lying. It also frightened him to watch his routine drift out of his conscious concilie control. He watched the boards and their stamped lines from saw blades and biological years. Hold in the missassociations and inseparable parts of his sensory experience. He shrugged at the thought that thoughts had power and he got up off the floor and went to grab his clothes, or make his prayers to a bathroom sink.

 

On the borderline of the one area available to safety in the world from the arms race of the human condition. 

 

“Inherently social” the words of Paul Van Lange, and questions about human nature interrupt his structured idea of who he is. There is socializing to do. The days are leaching at him, and this proported mundane experience has an unexpected ability to be redescribed into symbolic terms and exasperated feelings. 

 

It’s not only the pain he feels in his chest, but the drooping head of head filled with non-stop thoughts about chocolate poisoning and the way the cold makes you weak. The social pressures seem to hunt him down. Like whispers of expulsion and desperation soon to come, by no fault of his own, where his agency has become significantly limited, and his bones ache.

 

Emotion on their sleeves. When you don’t reliquish control, the purpose behind our actions melt into cherry red gloss.