I reach for and find the packet, unconsciously drawing from it while my mind resynchs to the effects of the television, I produce a chocolate chip cookie and take most of it in a single bite. I crush it between my teeth and my saliva mixes to dissolve the chocolate in my mouth. I am filled with sweetness and pleasure; I am deeply afraid of death. After death I will no longer be able to satisfy myself, or compensate myself with pleasure or satisfaction in the bite of a cookie.


In life I absolve my consternations of death through these items of small response, I fulfill the tiny screamers of comfort and pleasure- a masturbation of the mind- impulse, my fears of the grave, of dark, solitary unfulfillment, earnt perhaps, so in life I treat myself with disregard, to little hoaxes that come in wrappers that I can watch or listen to at the press of a button, and that in my place, in my class, my comfort, I am living a dream, a purple cushioned padded walled dream. I buy happiness from a machine, I buy it with time. Do I not deserve this if this exists? I do, I befall it. Old friend- you love me, I pay you. It goes on.


They that sell it sell it like an adorned casket, and so I will be buried with riches. I will eat of you, and you will love me, and you will say do not fear death, you have me now- and I will know it. I will live because it is hard not to once you have so defined it.



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