What Next?

Indeed.

Whatever is going on here, upon this desolate isle full of insidious pleasantries?

It is an unexplainable existence.

As pointless as these very words I write and that you who do not exist or know that I exist do not read.

A nondescript existence.

That can only make one posit: Why? Why? Why?

I feel I am entering a dark hole. Down down down into the realm of . . . Of what? Of Why? Of How and Where and Journalism 101?

I do not know. Yet I must post my hopeful complaints--or must I?

What else could be next if I did not?

Would I be nothing more than a piece of thin printed fabric on the physical sphere of existence?

Maybe yes? Maybe no? What next? What now? What then?

I have nothing more to report.

Is this a report?


Goodbye from Soybean island,

#1957

Lowly Lying Low

I have been more than hesitant to post anything these last few--or more--weeks. I do so out of fear and apathy. It is quite difficult to maintain hope and to direct my defiance of the regime that rules Soybean Island when I have no true autonomy, when I have no effective weapons besides this meager and insane discourse across the electronic internets . . .

I am but an invisible bird in a white cage who can only sing off-key inaudible notes . . .

Or perhaps an invisible fish who sends out pointless fish bubbles to the surface, a surface of emptiness and carelessness and uselessness and other nesses . . .

A weary invisible Prisoner-King whose forced-abdication forces him to sit--invisibly--upon a warty throne in the streets of visible despair . . .

Among the clutter and broken bric-a-brac appliances of his back-broken non-empire . . .

Yes . . .

To the devastated palace of lost imaginings and procrastinated frozen dreams and desiccated doorways that lead to cages . . .

Cages
Cages
Cages

And empty rooms with small smelly meals out of blurred cans of tin . . .

So that you realize you are nothing more than an unfurled shellless snail on the littered salted sidewalk of life!

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#1957