cherryville, b.c.

If I had my choices, I would rather not carry the knowledge of my impending demise however laid before me it may be. It is a gratuitous form of torment don't you think. However composed in theory, the weight of inevitability oozes into your pores like a humid morass of coagulated gumbo. Or drying cactus paste closing up your nostrils in successive rays of sun beating on a sheet of glass.






I'd much rather have it happen to me without any fanfare or presentation. Nothing to faun about, worry or gaggle or discuss or misunderstand or regret. No sorting out no pining no whining no tickling or jiggling. No u-turn.

Because I find once I am in the move, in the action, whatever gets done gets done. Everything takes care of itself. And if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters in the end. In the end, nothing is the end of the world. We traverse from life to death by mystery.






In the end, there will be flies. The flies will take care of any uncertainty.