Vanity is a blindness pushed against desperation to become a trap baited with pride and walled around by fear. Vanity is a built folly that the narcissistic would choose to live in.

It was written in black using a medium thick felt marker pen on the wood of the picnic site: Have sex with my wife or watch us have sex – 100% genuine.
I cautiously scanned the area while opening my sandwich box. I did not want my lunch to be spoilt.
I lift my head above the parapet: a crown appears upon my head; at least I think it is a crown; soon it turns out to be  fortified wall: I lift my head above the parapet: I am crowned; but the crown turns into a wall which make me safe although my kingdom is small: I lift my head above the parapet; the sight is astonishing, as if all the world were mine: from out my brow there grows a crown; it turns into a fortress: I lift my head above the parapet…
Utopian and liminal, these temporary places partially resolved. There is possible the possible of an entirely transient freedom. Inattention or absence or inability to genuinely pervade the entirety of any one domain that is at least nominally a domain; thus a moment become free, marked by a vacating or vacation of power. Liberty and play presume along a threshold of parting and returning.

The blissful romanticism of ruination is as a child’s first step. In such a step the tyranny of automatism need not persist. The craven call of a system’s need to domineer and function without exception need not be habitual.
To loop that thread was to create a foothold by which to swing up into the lower branches of the tree of knowledge. It was simultaneously denied and willed for us in the garden. We, new to liminality, had to take the first bite, by needs we were exiled; it was necessary that, unbidden, we came upon the sacredness of the lost. Losing to which finding is intimately linked.
The key, the concierge repeats, is fine. Perhaps it’s the door which ails one?

In the murder of unicorns we see sexual jealousy while the extermination of dragons is an almost entirely political and material endeavour. That is to say, to remove dragons is sublimation. You now sell snake oil and sell it well because it works for you.
No great thoughts just the endless dirty ones are the thoughts which keep me awake – unless this insomniac’s orgy of ghosts covers, like a thin smearing of cream, something else. Lick me.
It was our first material, the first thing beyond flesh: Night harboured the day itself, an impenetrable anxiety. But if night became our vision then these visions could become malleable, useful, small – if we wished. Now we dared hold it, make a shape of it, and even dredge it for an untainted sun. The key works fine, now turn the lock. Do you have the right door?

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