Thoughts From a Walk Home. 30/03

Jean-Michael Basquiat. Untitled (Fallen Angel). 1981. Acrylic, Oilstick, and Spray Paint on Canvas. Private Collection.

Wandering, wondering whether by my life has amounted to much more than pigeon shit, just that falls from the sky and lands just shy of my left foot. If I were a superhero, my alter-ego would be “NarrowlyAvoidedMan,” living life through a series of close calls and dodged responsibilities. Though, if adding “-man,” a suffix, to a talent is deemed too cliché or; I exist in some antihero, graphic novel-esque universe wherein ipso facto I am the villain, I could be called “Dr. Nearmiss.” An antagonized protagonist who fights against the natural order of the eventual heat death of the universe, but like all good villains, is eventually vanquished by the Righteous.
In one act of this two act televised theomachie, I stab god and pull on his white beard to find out whether he is the real Santa Claus or just another alcoholic father-figure. The dramatic reveal is forced to wait until after an eternity of commercial breaks in which aging celebrities sell household products they’ve never used to sustain living a lifestyle in which they never will. In one advertisement, a baby is shown driving a luxury vehicle. Unwittingly, This infinite series of product placements has been beamed into space, though this is of little important because they were never after regarded by anyone, as space is uninhabited. The unaging infant driving infinitely into the end of the nothing. The big bang, a dripping cloaca landing fast on the sidewalk; I unknowingly, narrowly avoid.

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