A hangover is an attunement. Our hangover is about the essential hungoverness of all things. Everything is hungover, don’t you see? It’s all hungover.
The pain of sobriety. Of the day after.
Last night, everything seemed to hold together. To hang together. We were inches away from the Truth. We feel the streaming of the Truth right above us, so close. But now …
Cicero liked us hungover. Liked us all thoroughly depressed. It amused her. She used to torment us, remember? She used to call 9AM meetings, just to summon us on. Breakfast meetings! Just to see us at our worst.
She used to sit there and take the piss. List our shortcomings. Bellow at us to make our heads ring. And then she’d sit back, grinning.
Hungovers are a necessary disenchantment, that’s what Cicero said. They show the world as it is. In its fallenness. In its state of abandonment.
Drunkenness, hangovers. Caught between the two. Oscillating form the one to the other. Our lives, perpetually in sway from the heavens to the abyss.
Better than living life without extremes. Better than living on the fucking flatlands. Where we do not know the height of height depths of depth. Where we do not understand what transcendence means. Or immanence.
Heaven and hell, right?
You can see the angels when you drink. And God, and the Most fucking high. And you see the absence of God when you’re sober. And the Most fucking Low.
Work in Progress 