Life In The Land of Non-Existence

Or is it Anti-Existence?

I am a ghost, I suppose. I am seen and heard and facial-recognitioned, yet I also do not exist.

I am a street dog.

A street dog in streets like these:





My disrupted life blockaded from meaningful interaction and purpose.

I live in a cone of silence and despair.

No. Not a cone, but many cones:




Cones, barriers, orangey-stripy things that impinge my freedom and visually impair--no, imply--the utter vacuousness of this society. This dreary landscape of dreariness, so much so that even the use of vocabulary is repetitive and dreary.

A lexicon of mush.

A single orange ball that is not the sun:



Fenced sunlight.


Complain complain complain

It is both an occupation and a hazard.


I would hazard to guess that I need a jolt:




Some refined electroshock therapy that does not exist here

or there

or anywhere.

No, I can only rely upon myself to save myself.

And I'm not that reliable . . .


Look at this landscape:








What subtle non-beauty.

Simply sublime in its abject stupidity.

Simply simple.

How could one not be enchanted by this--not.


I have previously compared myself to the poor and much maligned trees that grow here on this wicked island:





Right now they are such bare creatures. Forlorn. Sad and tragic in their emptiness under an empty sky amongst the empty landscape.

Empty Empty sat on a wall . . .

I feel much akin with them.


I must warn and apologize for the next photos. This is a trigger warning for those of you who have use for such things or, simply, have triggers. Or ticks. Bedbugs . . . What you are about to see is not pretty, but I feel that some level of journalistic integrity forces me to post them.

Here they are:







Pathos. Empathy. Horror. Arboreal tragedy.

Yes. I witnessed this with my own eyeballs.

It is a tree--nay, a portion of a tree--reaching out and crying out for its fallen comrade!

Or perhaps the action of a child-tree, desperately flailing in inconsolable grief over the death of its murdered parent log!

Or is it a confused and hapless branch trying to find its own lopped-off head?!

The Horror. The Horror.


The War On Trees continues upon this cultivated uncultured isle.


I apologize once again for showing the above photos, but you in the outside world need to know what goes on in this inside-out world.



This is all I have to report at this time.

It is all I can report.

There is no more.


Oneninefiveseven:


Goodbye from Soybean Island