Philosophical Dead-Ends, Pt.1

what is going on in the color factory of my brain? how is it so? how is it i (i?) have the ability to manufacture the experience of a lightbulb’s cast of golden light onto my golden couch? How, with a brain that is cut off from light?


not cut off from the light, but how much light gets in? it’s a darkroom for developing not just pictures, but the red light as well? how in the hell?

my mind has a body problem. my body is fine, thank you. i just need to listen to late night tales, by bonobo. let the smooth, smooth rhythm slip into my own. and i move with it. how do i groove with it?

i’m on a new limit of self: an emergence instead of a name: a collective instead of a brain: a mind instead of an objective connective tissue with warmth and a little bit of my medications.

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