The Falling Sickness: Eccentric Epistemology


Every scrap of wisdom I’ve scavenged deserts me when I need it most, leaving me with folly’s tears that drip, drip, drip from my leaking eye sockets, bony waterclocks. If I didn’t weep, how would I keep time?


I love to make up explanations for things – this is because of that . . . It’s a harmless pleasure . . . until I start believing my inventions.


Maybe there’s no exit from this expanding labyrinth, but I’m determined to map the convolutions of my maze – a map of the lost, by the lost, for the lost.


I’m bending my body into a bow and sharpening my passions into arrows that I’ll shoot into the unknown.


We assume that everything that happens behind our backs is reasonably continuous with what we see before us, but again and again we discover that we’ve grossly misrecognized what’s right in front of our eyes. Wouldn’t it be more reasonable to believe that the world is tripping funny dances behind our backs?

Behind Our Backs

There’s no reason to believe in love, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the incredible.


I only want to write the impossible, especially when I’m writing on myself.

Writing on Myself

I’m cutting myself open to unleash my fabulous genealogy – the singing beasts in my balls and eyeballs, the delirious machines ticking and whirring in my buzzing skull, the ferocious flowers blooming in my belly, promiscuous garden.

<< The Promiscuous Garden
>> Turn 12: The Aesthetics of (De)Composition

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