Xerophagy

These are supposed to be good days for woolgathering. But those eyes, like Guinness, they remind how much good things can be and so are not. Sad how we adapt to boring phrases and dull experiences rather than revolt. Our bodies physically repel against the unadventurous life with putrefaction, and we accept this? How can we call ourselves members of an animal kingdom with this response? Ah, tis our minds that make us different, minds that warn us to stay adroit by sending the message to laugh at sitcoms or respond to inquiries into our health and well being with one word, and never an interesting one. These warnings so often fail as we mistranslate this sirenic blare to mean "time to relax." Tell me again about our amazing brains? Let's wait until the commercial.

Those eyes, they should draw us from this grave, dissemble the bars with which we surround ourselves, and inject us with such passionate fury as to refuse the unoriginal and deny ourselves all our poison comforts.

Our lives are wired for these moments. And when obstructions occur, our wiring is supposed to adjust. War, economy, stress, relationships, futures: these are the guts of daydreaming, the equal and opposite pre-action to idle thoughts and restful minds and eyes that ignite, eyes that devastate with eternal depth and resuscitate with a blink of such perfect length. How did we fuck this up?