I am a man afflicted with a malaise. I suffer from chronic compulsions that instinctively lead me into pilgrimages I never planned on making (but always knew that I would).
The first stop of the pilgrimage — unremarkably unremarkable. No trash out, in spite of the neighbours’ readily offered refuse. I had no scruples in sliding away in rear-wheel drive, leaving the ever-lowering elevation I had always assumed the first Idea to be. (Done like the heat death.) The memory has already been contaminated; the chain of custody is wrong, and basically just everything about it makes a man predisposed to phrenetic failures and collapsed columns like the Nazirite he never was.
You couldn’t even pull the columns down around you.
Your arms now guide the ride, the sled styled contemporary to the century, European engineering, ending-engineering, the engineering of the end in visiting the second source, the binary Idea of the latter persuasion — persuading myself not to break character, break the ritual, the circle, the cycle, the meaningless, meaningless cycle of pathetic pilgrimages undertaken by a pilgrim more pathetic yet. And what is this habit? Masochism, or just reflexes?
You wish you knew, but all you know is when you’ve returned to the origin point, some singularities just need to be adored, up close and personal, lest they lose an iota of obsession in the mind of their beholder, the beloved, the bodies warm but distant, and as such, cold.
I am melted into my seat by another binary dilemma:
Left?
Or right?
