Incense

_ Sandalwood and burning flesh... living downwind from the crematorium. Can you imagine?

_ Of course I can imagine. Isn't that what worrying is?

_ Worry is about four knots down the line of things imagined. Numero uno?... The greatest wonder?... Our imagined immortality in the face of an ubiquitous certainty -  death.

_ An ubiquitous certainty? I oughta knock you into the middle of next week.... A... a... a hour... a an apartment. An ubiquitous certainty.... Whyioughta... whyioughta... What's the use?... What's the sense in arguing with you, or with anyone else for that matter? Thought of death is a flame courting wanton conflagration: It will take you there! Thought stands committed to death - a covenant not to be denied. Your mind will turn inward.... An ubiquitous certainty grabbing you by the throat and tearing you away from the imagined. The fire of imagination and the fire of death, a dance only seen by those lucky enough to have had their eyeballs burnt from their skulls. This, my very good friend, is a job for the Doms... It - an ubiquitous certainty - is the only consort fit for things imagined; it exists for no one else. Death is yours, and yours alone.

_ The Doms labor under no such illusion, witnessing no such imagined dance, for it is they who tend the fires.

_  A worry-free life. I want to be among the Doms.

_ Sorry, my very good friend, but it's like royalty - you are born into it.

_ What if you work out vigorously and wait for it?

_ Wait for what?

_ Dom-ness to descend upon you. The delayed onset of muscle soreness... All the Doms do it.

_ What time does the Post Office close?

_ Sometime after it opens - it never closes when it's open.

_ At one point in time I wanted to be a postal clerk. Shortly thereafter, after I had told numerous people of my wish, I received guidance that my life was for another purpose.

_ And what is that purpose?

_ I don't know. I have not yet received that package in the mail. Good help remains hard to find.

_ What do you do?

_ What do you mean 'What do I do?'... I put in the time - Mark Twain style - and go about the affairs of living. What do I do?!!... Are you off your rocker?

_ "... I know why baby's crying, cause she's dying. Aren't we all?" Harry Chapin, babe... Taxi... Don't talk to me about the dead thing. She - and a floozy is she - readies herself for you.

_ O really?... Death readies herself for me? I hope she doesn't mind me being balls deep in her sister 'Life'.

_ Again with the again...' the wheels of the bus go round and round...' Get me a chai and a double chocolate wallop. I'm going to head outside and eat a songbird. Tweet-tweet, tweet-tweet. Remember... Room temperature awaits...

_ A double chocolate wallop? Chai?... Mail call!

                                                                    ************

... The delicious tension of things in opposition to each other.

... Friction is to the linear as stillness is to the experience.

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