i used to race to be abreast of the greatest and latest, the first to find out, she with all the chisme. her ahead. now i want to be behind.
millennia straddling the longest and the strongest. thirty in thirty out, my crotch is clearly a portal of sorts, a phantom song to whales and wales, beyond myth and circumstance, fully functioning, unformatted ankh.
to embrace future behind-the-times self, i've quit smoking tobacco. by disengaging the news, the forefront of information, the cutting edge, i forfeit the pleasure of whole, white smoke and mental focus. going forward, she is calm surface pure chaos. cigarettes hate her, they're still talking "she'll be back".
the past was all about being able to predict the future, but time and stories are loops, they never conclude or begin, they never change, only molt. the cast and characters are clones, and the plots may twist, but they remain the same, a collective race to get somewhere first, all the time.
so i'm not. i'm staying put. this is as far into future as i want to go. i'll watch from here what peaks and peeks, i'll stay the version that built an era, the earache and nosebleed that ended it. i want to live out the sterile version of future with my invisible steaming ankh out to pasture.
i have to vote in costa rica elections today AND i have to go to a funeral.
