This is no story...

I suppose the physical image of having my words contained in a small, white, cyberbox is plenty to be cynical about. 1

I'm also willing to suppose that a collective inability to see past the greyness of the sky is much to attribute and contribute to cynicism. It is a self-fulfilling and self-sustaining prophecy, this "jaded" view of reality--- as there is much to allow the existence of pessimisim. Every ounce and inch of this performance is transparant and I find it hilarious that many are unable to notice their roles in it. Even in my fruitless negativity, there is a participation in the drama. 2

When prose is logical and easily followed, but still manages to remain on the fringes of its own category, can it be called poetic prose? Must prose poetry be flowery and difficult? Does any of this make sense...?3

At times, I seem to catch to world's order. I seem to grasp the gist of the system. Quite often, the skeleton of the design reveals itself to me and I understand the matrix. It is in times of absolute zero and nothingness that there is true usefulness--- because only the truly blank can be used. Only in nonsensical uselessness can purpose be found. Only in empty space can things exist. So, to find the purpose, of course rhetoric must be abandoned. This seems to be a piece of the 'grand puzzle.'