Descartes is in France. Descartes is in Sweden. Descartes is dead. We mourn only those we knew well, and when we never knew them at all, it is our own future death we cry over. Now, Descartes is covered in semen, somewhere under a collegiate’s bed. When the semester is over, he will travel to Japan to spill his borrowed knowledge, much like he did his seed.
Every day, I pick a new father, even though I begin to accept my own. Today, it is Henry Darger. We have cold cereal in the mornings, and he tells me about what kind of trouble the Vivian Girls will get into by nightfall. All the noises and thunder bolts belong to them, so that they can transfer over to me. I notice how the colors he uses are as bright as his smile. But, I think I heard somewhere that he was a sexless man, so I am brought back to my own reality. No worries, the cold cereal is here, too.
For each goal I do not pursue, my will to live grows weaker. The darkness has returned, brought by a relative of the dictator, who has come to avenge the murder of one of his own. It’s ha-hee-achoo, down deep into the blue.
Happiness is found in what I do not know.