There is to be a show. I am to put one on. Less than a week to go. And here I am, interrupting my own preparation.
I wonder. At what point does memory become history? And, at what point is desire too corrupted by selfishness so that nothing pure is left remaining?
The preponderous thought is upon us. Or at least me, being the least me, if I can manage.
I ponder upon the benevolence of my habits. And whether the romanticism of some had rightly earned its place to die. And if I, as some personal Dr. Frankenstein, unnaturally keep them alive. I’m aware of the ones that are quite plainly barbaric, or some synonymous equivalent. Outside of those, there are the ones that…