while cruising at 42,000 ft
everywhere around me I sense the chasm, the yawning chasm between my experience of events and the hideously deformed shape in which these experiences emerge posthumously - yes, each event is a death, and all that comes after is elegy, cloying eulogy that scrabbles pathetically at the skin of things. at times like these I balk especially at conversation, the ultimate incarnate of distillation, ceaselessly summarizing, every word hanging the twin deadweights of epigram and pith on the formless massless enormity of the experience of which we speak. our eyes glaze over with the seduction that we are speaking truth, a correspondence of word to event - correspondence isn't, and never will be, and that - that is the grief of the subjective, and the melancholy of language