255 words

Some kind of sensible observation, which picks up on the concerns of the multitude, plus the manifest needs of the individual, and transforms, as though a refulgent phenomenon, the ancient scope of divine deeds, which are scarcely to be acknowledged, which are scarcely to be seen, which carry me off on dirigibles to the flighty heights of ignoble precipices and bring me here, neat and shining, as though scaled and gutted like a fish, to the scene of all our most obvious adventures, where evil demons dance in the skins of the good, while the good bide their time within the belly of death, within the bowels of death, like the clouds that descend in the late afternoon, like the motivation for shrugging off all my cares, perhaps to wander off, in a nomadic spirit, towards the untoward advances of large cars and women with possums tucked under their arms, alongside the voluminous books and the dark shawls, which call down the night, which summon the night, which have no other function than to silence all speech, or at least which offer up this option as a temptation, as the only pathway towards the blank forest, which of course is only blank just now, and just now also grows rich and complex like one of those awful cakes that one is forced to eat as a child, marbled with chocolate and coated with icing that resembles a choppy sea, that is a choppy sea, that is every thought of drowning, that is every abandonment of thought.