Drinking. What Cicero wanted. The clue was in our drunkenness. The clue was our drunkenness.
What happened when we drank. What possessed us. What spoke through us. What lifted us.
The labyrinth of our idiocy. In which we had been lost. In which we had been mired. And from which we were lifted in drunkenness.
Our idiocy caught fire: was that it?
Our drunken apotheosis. Our drunken apocalypticism. Drunken messianism. Drunken messianic hope. Hope for what? That it can end, the endlessness. That it can be brought to an end, the fake eternity.
Our drunken death blow. That we will strike. The fall of the axe from the sky. The guillotine blade cleaving the air. The certainty of death.
The drunken chance. The drunken lifting.
We were not lost. We could see it, the whole sky. It was before us, all of it: The true sky.
could see it: the eye of God. The absent eye of the absent of God. The void – was that it? Was that the name for it?
The DIVINE absence: that’s what we saw. The divine NOTHING, all in capitals.
We’d reached the right level of intensity. Reached the right kind of acceleration. Attained some kind of takeoff. Ardency caught fire.
But it fades, right?
Sure it fades. There’s the next day. There’s the hangover.
Of course there is.
Why do we have to forget all over again? Why do we have to fall back? Why do we have to fail?
Finitude, baby.
Why drunkenness be permanent? Why can’t we always live at that level? Why can’t we stay the drunken course?
Why do we have to go on? Why does there have to be a tomorrow? Why another day? Why does it just go on? Why the day after day? Why the sequel? Why the endless fallaway? When we can’t even retain what happened. When can’t hold onto it anymore.
Work in Progress 