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Tripe #2
Everything is relative, they say, except light. Even sacred time modulates to allow it free reign: unhindered passage at a steady two hundred and ninety nine million, seven hundred and ninety two thousand, four hundred and fifty eight meters per second. Strange how the realization that time is not constant drove Einstein to the brink of insanity not so long ago, and that today we smile deftly in recognition: “Of course,” we say, sipping our tall glasses. They say there is no scientifically provable link between insanity and genius. If you want my verdict on it, they’re full of shit.
Today, it is bright outside. The light enlivens the curtains, attempting trespass. Today, they remain closed, for light is not conducive to the operation of a monitor. It is not conducive to writing. Darkness is the time of writing, the time of the soul. The day – too overtly concerned; begging action torturously from each second. A slow procession between coffee in the morning and wine at night, where the one is to wake and the two to sleep (and smokes for the time in between). Would that I could live without such crutches. They say though that those who drink a couple of glasses of wine a day are happier than those who don’t. And if you want my verdict on it, we’re all full of shit.
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