Suffering is Life's-spice sprinkled generously.

In the second attack of Braille for lane control, the night parsed our muddled drunkenness to flowers’ opening, and relayed it’s abuse in blessings, as they laid the heap of rubble at the slate which constituted his marker, signaling his departure from the world. Scratched in evanescent chalk was a crude description of his sharp fear before the shrapnel which severed his leg, caused him to bleed to death. ‘Anotghe body for preditor Bush’, it read, in broken English, or apt spelling, underneath. It was a harsh vignette, of a harsher war, congesting us with visions which derailed dreams to nightmares. It’s weird she went there, to see that. Is it curiosity, or atonement for a collective wrong, which nobody seems empowered to do anything about? Meanwhile, the billion concocted details we ride through our ‘organized world’s confound us to confusion and distraction, shunting us from the scenarios which would awaken us. The cross-eyed quasi mongoloid was playing with his ear buds, which seemed to be shrieking death rock music; he was white as a sheet and clearly anxious about his coffee order, which even by Kant’s reckoning, was taking an inordinate amount of time. He turned to sate himself on my soul; his pupils were holes, stargazing time.

The panic of time. The saga of time, the history time invokes—his Buddha emptiness wrote my tale, in unpronounceable expletives. Minutes tick as seconds when you’re engaged in your passion, a state which suggests suffering. I consider the maelstrom of sound this fellow enjoys. In early eras, his musical preference would have made him a candidate for being roasted at the stake. ‘The church’, whatever church that might be, would blanch at those lyrics. The sheer pointlessness of chance, in time-defined events, normalizes and redefines suffering. It shifts from the flesh, to the existential. It veers through hoops, into quiescence, brewing like carnal desire in monks, locked in secular cages. The rules swing and bang like gates winds tease; we attempt to dance delicate ballet, predicating ‘grace’ upon the whims Gods snigger about. Suffering sizes passion to realism, and it gives us compassion for blades of that, which we cut, to keep their length ‘correct’.