Thursday, 18 August 2011

Should we be concerned that the SEC has been destroying files?

No, I don't think so. Worse things happen at sea. Darcy Flynn reckons the SEC has been destroying files for almost twenty years. This means all sorts of financial villains have got away with financial murder. I wouldn't worry about it though, if I were you. I am not you, of course. If I were. I am not. If I were. I don't even know who you are. Who are you? And I have no idea who Darcy is, and neither does he. So there's a lot of confusion. We don't even know if any of this is true.

I am in one of those moods. Not one of these moods, over here. One of those moods, over there, beyond the horizon of my 'regular' consciousness. Unusual, for me. (For anyone, if I'm being honest. Am I being honest?) I want to destroy the 'sense' others have worked so hard to attain. I despise their sanity, their rationality. Their pathetic fucking 'thoughts', their writing. To read this is to dive into hell. We are going down? Well, I am. This is the ultimate news. It is the truth they try to hide. I am not afraid to write it. Are you afraid to read it? The best of you will follow me, I am sure of that. The worst of you will close your minds. Yes, it's a test. Have you got the balls, and the spirit, to pass it?

There are so many horrors. I shouldn't really add to them. However, my demonic passion takes me on strange journeys, and I am powerless. I'll let myself drift. Oh, I will. I shut / I stop / I shut myself down for a second and I am gone, for a hour, or two, or three. Blackout! We've been here before. Like all actors before! A million miles from the City of London, and Wall Street. The dead are coming on. Old friends. Old enemies. Faces of love and hate. It's all the same to me. Those red eyes! I've seen them in so many dreams. Bodies, and the fur. (Fur? Some of them.) Killers, of spirit. It's going to be an accident, my getting the words and images I'm after. If only I had more control. Like a radio fading out, I am something untouchable. They don't want you to read this. (You have to find realities like this for yourself.) They won't direct you to it, with their witless [fucking, optional] approval. They don't want you to read this. It's a life they can't approve of, my life. They are scared of my disease. I would never get a job with respectable folk like them, all dead the little lambs, they are. Gentle, civilized, and ever so lucky, imbeciles at their desks, staring at screens, wondering what's it all about and make the bad man go away. 'Please, someone, make the bad man go away. He'll ruin my career. He'll steal my reasons for staying alive even though I'm a dead little lamb and the devil plans to eat me.' They think I'm going to serve them up to the devil. Ha! Well, I might. I just might.


Now, that moment has passed, you'll be glad to hear. I'm glad it has passed. I am glad to hear the wonderful news myself, and I am the one who said it was over, all passed into the past. I need to concentrate on the glorious future. With control? In the future, my future?! We can only hope. Here we are. Now. Here / we / are, here / you / are, here / I / am. Slower, and softer, and it's raining - a sort of bonus, I guess. Some summer this is! Some life, too.