A few {dazes} ago I got `caught` by "An Inquiry Into Values" the post-script title off of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I got dizzy as my tiny monkey brain began to spin. I sat on the ground to keep from falling over . I wondered HOW I had forgotten Pirsig's Mission, a Mission that I had vowed to Continue with my own Investigations and Research{es}. I tried to `Think` but could not. I sat, holding on, as if on a {not-so} merry-go-round NOT the Gentle kind---but the playground DEATH Dealer where if you DON'T hold on you're discharged like grass from a walk-behind mower .
I'm always That Drunk who pulled a soiled mattress onto the bar's pool table while slurring, "How did things get so fucking fucked-up?" . Been there >>>>> STILL there ................ .
In moments of ((unsustainable)) AGONIZING Clarity I suffocate beneath the CRUSH of segment-tated History, the one where motes of dust and even molecules of powder are e-massed like that of cement in an 80 pound bag,,,,,, "heavy" just doesn't do it; it barely gets you close. But there 'it' is, a bag of cement on my face ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ .
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