Star Arcade

One year on Christmas Eve, Hieronymus Schitzolini was changing the curtains in his studio apartment.  That year the space heater was on the fritz and either overheated the room or barely warmed a leg.  So he had it cranked up and moved about in the buff.  While putting up the blackout curtains, Hieronymus lost his balance and fell off the ladder.  Unfortunately, earlier that evening, he was skinning potatoes.  Unbeknownst to him, one of those skinned potatoes had rolled onto the floor and waited for him silently.  So when he fell, it so happened that upon hitting the floor with his naked flesh, the potato went right up his rump.  At the hospital, nobody believed the miracle had happened in the way he told it.  Nonetheless, while waiting in the ER with a tater up the clacker, Schitzolini penned this vision on some paper scrounged together by the helpful staff.

Klein fiasco

‘Twas the Christmas of ’92 and out on the Playa in Death Valley I stood alone on that white plane.  Like a racer on the Bonneville Salt Flats, a silver craft raced toward me.  As it got closer I saw that it had no wheels.  It was hovering fifteen feet above the ground when it stopped before me and lowered its docking bridge.  Mesmerized, I failed to notice how anything exited and got behind me but before I knew it, I had my arms held behind my back and a bag over my head.  Inside, I was put on my hands and knees in some kind of harness.  They spoke a language that sounded precise and intricate.  When one of them spoke English, I was shocked at hearing something I could understand.  “We’re going to give you back your soul.”  I didn’t know that my soul had gone missing.  Did the word “soul” mean something else to them?  A searing pain in my rear end went well beyond the proctologist’s thumb, let me tell you.  While enduring the pain, I was trying to figure out what the word “soul” meant to them and if it were the same meaning then how could it be possible to give it back and through my ass?  As they inserted it into my butt, the one informed me that the first person they gave a soul back to was the one we call Jesus Christ.  With this much rear pain, I bet Jesus didn’t ask for this gift either. 

Whatever they did inside me, at some point they hit a spot that caused me to gush into a fever dream.  I saw sand crabs flopping asunder the playa millions of years ago.  Soft paws strolling along the shallows of the lake that is no longer there.  Then I was in a hut somewhere listening to the murmur of boiling eggs while I picked up a piece of fudge and without realizing what a hard brick it was, rent my tooth and tongued it as it dangled.  The smell of sour piss emanated from a corner so I went outside to find myself on a frozen lake with fisherman tending to holes in the ice and pulling out fish already battered and fried from the water.  A wild horde of fiddlers fingered psalms as their beards crawled with eels.  Somebody scratched the odd phrase “blob warp spew fracture” into the ice.  A mint sprig fell from the sky and I caught it and chewed on it and it released a sort of truth meal that’s too difficult to explain but to make a long story short I turned into a river skulking it’s way back into the hills.

When I came to, clearly the one speaking with me was assigned to help me with the transition between my ignorant life without a soul to my new life with one.  And so I limped as my star being helped me deboard and as I needed to sit down on my side, my Star Being helped make sense of the inner realizations I was already automatically having from receiving my lost soul.  Here is what I understood with the help from its guidance.

Star Beings seek planets that have evolved enough for them to enter the vessels of consciousness and adorn a body in which the weary space traveler can sleep.  They use the planet as a womb hive until it must be abandoned due to overpopulation and its damaging effects on any planet’s environment as the technology inevitably progresses.  In the adornment process, the vessel prevents the Star Being from bringing their knowledge directly into it.  Everything they know is refracted by the fleshy gravity bound medium they call a meat frame box.  Their dream state is what we call our waking life.  And when we sleep they run their simulations – the decaying sense manipulations – to experiment with consciousness through dream logic.

Star Beings are obviously far ahead of us.  The infrastructure of our corporeal form is far more primitive than theirs, which can withstand space travel without the need for ships or suits or any of that limited container mind-frame engineering.  Eons ago did they learn how to harness the nested curves of the Sun-Father’s penis.  They only presented me with a spacecraft so that I could make sense of their appearance.  Some of us dream of other planets where our Star Beings (the ones who took on our flesh) were before.  

Once my Star Being entered the vegetative consciousness of a planet and showed it to me through a dream where I had these beautiful white flowers blooming from each of my organs.  The sensation of organs blooming was like an ecstasy of endless unfolding.  All the spaces under my skin filled with these tender petals.  Then I awoke into another dream where I stroked my chest hair and found one I had to pluck.  With a tug, the sensation of fibrous rope squeezed pleasure through my pore.  Like I had plenty more where that came from.  And I pulled and pulled and discovered that it wasn’t hair at all but lettuce.  I pulled out a bed of lettuce and still there was more.  And on that bed of lettuce, my Star Being revealed himself to me as an ancient Sumerian replete with glorious regal curly hair and beard.  So much hair in fact that I had to look closer to realize that he had my face.  The only difference was a more pronounced mole or beauty mark on his left cheek.  And he told me that he had to appear as a harbinger of justice reincarnated to make an impact on my dull consciousness with a gift known to some on this planet as a vajra or a diamond-thunderbolt by which reality can be peeled open. 

Mirroring or doubling is a favorite tactic of Star Beings in our dreams.  They tend to stay hidden even when they reveal themselves to us.  Like when mine doubled as Shamash, he told me, like some genie, that I could ask him any question I wanted, but when I did, it was like I immediately knew the answer from within myself to the point that I could not discern if I was having an honest conversation with myself or if I was actually receiving his infinite wisdom through the refraction of my vessel.  I asked him about the white flowers blooming from my organs and he told me, or I told myself, that it was a plant that he had discovered on that planet where flowers bloom into consciousness in a meadow tended by a lady as light as a gossamer with filaments of light for hair and skin as tender as petals.  She would pluck one of his petals as she would with the others and wrap it in a single hair so that it would float across a bay to sentient life on the other shore whereupon receiving it, they recognized it as what they called an epiphany.  

The lady of the white flower meadow was the model on our planet upon which the Virgin Mary would be derived along with the ultimate epiphany as an immaculate conception or the impregnation of the greatest idea like the soul inserted into my bum.  She would recite a meditation for hyper-active minds bearing the burden of an overactive consciousness while plucking her epiphanies that went something like this:

“Don’t worry about what won’t work out, accept what will.  Rather than wasting precious life on worrying, start loving as a way of living instead.  Don’t worry about your partner, love your partner.  Nothing positive or unifying goes without acknowledgement.  It is a mistake to assume so.  The mind cannot be directly controlled.  The mind can only block thought or direct it.  Take care and attention to how you think.  Be as good a witness to yourself above all else.    Gather the infinite petals of truth and receive the fruit of health and shield of shelter and ultimately the emblem of unity.  Follow its warmth.  Its gentle unfolding into the void.  Its truth is its love.  

Love is only an illusion if apprehended by deception.  You get what you give.  The light of the flower only reflects your light.  Such sentient beings forget what love is and that is why they need epiphanies.  To remember that deception only gets nothing in the end.  It destroys its own purpose.  Let go of the objects of your attention.  Open your hands and they will be full of everything you need.  Step back and relax into the widest frame of your mind.  Stop fighting yourself through others by worrying about the shallow terrain of evaluations that accrue into a wasteland of clutter if they are not seen for what they are.  Do not live by such superficial restraints set at some other time in some other place.  Do not listen to the lies of comfort and safety and efficiency and any other mask that hydra-headed fear can assume.  Know that you desire what you fear and fear what you desire and neither is a cause for panic or desperation but rather contemplation.  

Sit like these flowers in the meadow on the banks of the ancient river.  Observe what floats by.  Force nothing.  Know that any action is merely a bolder reaction.  Let the reactions float down river.  Let them assimilate with the rest of the reactions.  Relax.  Nothing is new under any sun.  Everything issues forth from the same place.  Have courage in unfolding your tenderness and watch worry crumble away.  Abandon enforcement and choose to radiate like the white flower.  Nothing will ever be the same again.  All the pointless battles and pyrrhic victories will dissipate.  And the emptiness of the void will reveal itself as the positive force it also is.  That of full potentiality.  This is what it means to possess the diamond thunderbolt.”

In that meadow, my Star Being met his soulmate.  She sprouted and blossomed right beside him.  He could not believe how remarkably easy it was.  They knew it right away.  And the mother of that garden knew love at first sight (the randomness of destiny) when it appeared in her garden.  And when their time had come to leave that corporeal form, she plucked them at the same time so that they could journey across space together.  They traveled across the void but their form of traveling is something the Star Being referred to as “growing” across the void and they came to this planet and adorned the forms of myself and my love.  

At this point, I realized what he meant by saying I needed to have my soul reinserted.  My Star Being was in fact already me without me knowing it.  Seeing it as another body was the only way my dim consciousness could make sense of the impossibility.  Since my mind became too cluttered with what I mistook as me, they intervened to make me whole again.  The flesh had to be bent back to serve its true host and fulfill the rejoining of these star-crossed lovers by lodging the diamond-thunderbolt right up my keister.

We were born into bodies on separate continents but still found each other and repeated the first sight of love we had experienced on that other planet as flowers but had forgotten in this life, though buried somewhere deep in our refracted consciousness.  

Stranger still, we sometimes have the same dream.   I mean I’m in hers and she’s in mine.  In one dream, my tooth fell out or was kicked out by a spider who dangled from its thread so my partner took a pair of scissors and cut it and removed the spider from my mouth.  That is love.  

We were sitting at a park where a chartreuse haze clung to the grass as people sunbathed and used tombstones for backrests.  The sky flashed silver and stayed that way like a sustained camera flash as the clouds rotted purple.  We ran to an abandoned houseboat with an indoor pool where a fluffy white Persian cat floated on a satin pillow.  The cat picked up a miniature guitar and strummed a few chords that compromised the hull and the house boat began to sink.  We escaped through the indoor pool.

Whenever I’m unkind to my partner now, when I harp on things that cannot be, my Star Being reminds me of what a ridiculous man I am.  He calls me a real clinger since I persist in his consciousness when on other planets usually his host subsides and accepts his rule.  Once I had a real fit about family matters and a flaccid dong flopped out of my mouth.  My mustache turned into a pubic bush.  I scrambled to stuff the floppy thing back in to hide it but it flopped out all the more.  As soon as I figured out how to stop being a dickhead, the swollen sponge disappeared and I could talk and eat normally again.  

I asked my Star Being why I keep forgetting myself and turn unkind.  He explained:

“Human flesh is governed by its source, the same source we grow across.  We call it the void of emptiness and full potential.  Sentient beings are all run by the ouroboros of the will.  A unity of desire and fear.  One and the same.  Thus, remembering is made of forgetting and vice versa.  It is as natural to forget as it is to remember.  And good too.  But also not.  It’s an eternal flipping and flopping full of contradiction to anyone who only tries to hold on to desire and deny fear.  To hold on to memory and forget forgetting.  Such is the way of error.  There is another place where I have been and you have too, even though you cannot remember it.  A place where a crescent silver moon touches the zenith of a mountain.  We would cross that bridge and traverse the terrain as particles of reflected light and touch everything with our indirect worship of that sun.”

“But why come here and play this game on Earth?”  I asked.  And my Star Being moved my mouth to answer my own question:

“The shapeshifter inside plays at the center-less ghost arcade.  We impersonate ourselves and pretend they are the people we meet.  Intentions are the assumptions of ghosts.  Our principles are the desires of these apparitions.  We mash the buttons to escape the disappearing scroll.  The dead renderings pit us against bosses from our own forgotten scripts.  The forms assumed are remembered not as assumed but as strange finalities to be erased.  Play the lucid dream game with its soft joystick breaking intentions on every counter gesture.  Listen to the disembodied voice impersonating you.  Dead soul marionettes dance the death jig for empty points.  Ghosts run errands in this looping sand box.  They simulate text messages about how many friends they’ve lost.  Whoever plays the game forgets the years trapped in this ghostly architecture.  Even Star Beings are entranced by the flickering finalities of a captive yet dying light before they can grow across space to enter another game.” 

Clogging the Labyrinth

Clogging the Labyrinth Podcast

For Hieronymus Schitzolini the labyrinth is time represented as a place.  He believed that the brutal seemingness of repetition hammers us into a submissive sleep and that this sleep of continuity smooths over breaks in the time-maze as it spirals away from what was thought to anchor it.  He experienced this acutely while stranded in that desert town sold as paradise called Palm Springs.  Time has a funny way of standing still where the maze flattens like a carcass under the sun and everything becomes a surface without boundaries.

Klein fiasco

Look at the sad body in the dead end of a labyrinth.  Given up.  Sobbing over its trap.   The kind of crying that happens in dreams.  The kind everybody wants to forget.  The walls sag over the sick body.  No way out.  This clump of flesh limps between dead ends.  The desperation for control has already been written into these walls by all the other sad bodies that scrawled here as they were swallowed up by grief.  Any healthy body that passes by feels the failed clutching of the stuck body’s weak hands.  The sad body asks for anyone to help, but by help it means to merge into its sadness by way of that euphemism for assumption called empathy.  Once the walls have melted into an ooze it becomes apparent that it is a black pond.  The deeper one wades into the muck-maze, the more it drags one under.  

Look at the angry body in the labyrinth.  Ramming into walls.  Beating its fists.  Stomping back and forth.  Pissing in every corner.  Screaming at the dead ends.  The endless corridors burn with rage.  The floor cracks under its heavy foot.  The angry body slaps itself in the face.  Bites its fist with the hunger of anger.  This labyrinth with walls of fire chars the angry body.  It glows and sparks embers with every movement.  The only thing the angry body wants is to annihilate whatever put it here.  Friends and family of the angry body who enter the corridors of choler end up dead for their own good.  Angry bodies kill what they love and call it protection.  What else could exist in this swirling fire pit?  

Look at the hunchbacks digging in the labyrinth.  Hunched from so many years of digging.  They ceaselessly dig here and there to tunnel out of the labyrinth yet every tunnel comes up against an impenetrable curtain of rock.  If anyone asks them what they are doing, they will never admit to the image of escape that possesses them.  Instead, they will insist upon a more noble cause, something to cover up the dreary state of their perpetual work.  Anything but the fact that they are digging for the sun.

Look at the dancer dancing through the labyrinth.  The choreography of the walls move with the dancer in synchronicity.  As the dancing body spins, the speleothem chandelier spins above.  Whenever it seems as if the labyrinth might collapse, the dancer discovers one more movement to slip away.  Eventually, the maze gives up.  The walls fall away.  And the dancing body keeps dancing on what has become its stage, or a gestural space.  And when the dancer sees a sad body trapped in the floor, it dances to encourage the sad body to dance.  But the sad body slumps in its muck.  And when the dancer sees the angry body throwing a tantrum, it encourages the angry body to turn it into a war-dance.  But the angry body chokes on its bile.  And when the dancer sees the hunchbacks digging, it encourages them to use the shovel as a prop for a dance.  But the hunchbacks scoff at wasting their time.  

The miser never takes a vacation.  So when he found himself forced to take one by virtually everybody in his life, he goes to a destination town advertised as the place to be.  He walks by the obligatory art deco building preserved for nothing but looking at.  The endless rows of palm trees scream at him that he has landed in paradise and this makes him frown.  The miser reads the sign “support our troops” in the patriotic zone and wonders how much more that will cost.  The wealthy displays of jewelry on the necks of women and the vintage automobiles padding the asses of men make him scowl.  His cost-griping, price pinching demon would devour these wasteful consumerist boobs if he let it out.  The main drag that never really was doesn’t fool him.  The stores try to tell him who he is but he knows their dirty little tricks to sell him cheap shit while he waxes poetic about himself.  “No thanks,” he mutters.  

Somebody tries to strike up a friendly conversation but soon realizes he picked the wrong chat-buddy and miffed, calls the miser a nihilistic naysayer.  He thanks him for calling him something he hadn’t heard before.  Finally a surprise.  He was used to party poop but nihilistic naysayer feels like a badge of honor.  

The miser can smell the waste disguised as fun a mile away.  He knows exactly what this place isn’t, paradise.  What is this place then?  A labyrinth for dipsticks?  What he couldn’t figure out was who all these assholes were and what factory made them to voluntarily imprison themselves here.  As he checks into his hotel, he checks right out and drives back home from the desperate attempt to get him on the right side of the money-time continuum.  

Meanwhile the upbeat dipstick who coined “nihilistic naysayer” is really enjoying himself.  A buck tooth grin from ear to squeaky clean ear.  A white line of excitement leaps around the back of his head from the haircut he just got.  The palm trees and swimming pools and spas make him feel like this place exists in an age of true decadence.  Plenty of everything to go around.  His favorite word is abundance.  Second favorite, plethora.  And this place has both, an abundance of fun and a plethora of extravagance.  Even the fake turf at the bar, hosed down from last night’s puke, tickles his toes.  

The banana daiquiris are to die for.  The only hitch has been the amount of sunblock he had to slather on.  Smell that peculiar greasy plastic coconut stink.  But when in Rome, right?  Even the abundance of tired kitsch Marilyn Monroe holding her dress down and Elvis Presley standing like a park ranger in a Hawaiian shirt has the air of goofy freshness.  In a flash, the upbeat dipstick notices this female sweat sculpture seated at the bar.  Caked in raunchy makeup and draped in a flower barf moo moo, the woman reminds him of his depression-aholic mom as she slurps another Mai Tai down her grizzled gullet.  A shiver jumps up his spine and jolts him down the main drag where he quickly forgets her as he exercises his curiosities in a store called “The Shiny Glitz.”

On the other side of town where there isn’t any bother about simulating paradise and where city planners circle-jerked it into a dead end after decades of failed projects, an imposter goes to a home where he has squatted for weeks.  Nobody at the home seems to own it nor could anybody keep track of who lives there.  The neighborhood sees it as a rat-infested trash heap, but their calls have fallen on deaf ears in this forgotten part of town.  The house itself is a mad patchwork of rooms juxtaposed over time.  Deranged corners twist and turn into walls assembled from any available materials.  The doorways, without any doors, are so narrow that the imposter must slide through sideways.  Some rooms need to be climbed into.  Maybe more cubby hole than room.  The imposter cannot find a comfortable place to rest.  Nor can anything be easily found with the assorted scramble of things in every drawer.  

The living room was destroyed by a car that ran off the road last year, so it was converted into an amphitheater.  Sometimes the imposter comes home to a concert but today there is a meeting.  The imposter doesn’t know anybody participating.  He overhears them talking about controlling this and controlling that.  One stranger gets up and goes to the stage and makes a formal complaint.  Then another.

The master of ceremonies preaches to the distraught that they should not find grief but rather rejoice at the clarity of knowing what they do not want.  The word rejoice makes the imposter giggle inside.  Rejoice sounds so old fashioned.  Stiff.  Like a request to do what could only be done by force.  An order to have fun.  “Look at this jalopy,” says the MC as he points at the house, “look at the broken intentions.  It makes a person with control issues want to tear it down.  Build a perfect box.  But that wouldn’t be perfect would it?  It never is.  Name one house you’ve lived in that didn’t have its issues.  Every house has its broken intentions, no matter what.  It’s only the contrast between this jalopy of broken intentions that seems to embody it, but it isn’t any different than if you were to tear it down, and build another only to discover more broken intentions.  Rejoice!  Rejoice at the fact that this jalopy is exactly what you do not want.  It’s gift is clarity!  The lack of control a gift.”

An agitator screams “bullshit” as she throws a molotov cocktail at the stage.  Fire engulfs the amphitheater as the audience scrambles through any hole to get out.  The imposter squeezes through the back door and watches the smoke glow orange in the night sky as it billows up with embers swirling around like a hive of fireflies.  The beauty of the embers falling and catching other houses on fire is terrifying but the impostor accepts it.  He accepts the idea of the neighborhood burning to ashes as something that is beyond his control.  He accepts that the jalopy of a house is as good as gone now.  The MC was right!  The impostor feels the rush of an epiphany: rejoice!  Yes!  

Rejoice at what you do not want.  Accept the idea of everything.  No matter how any of it intersects your notion of control.  See the broken intentions and let them stand as they appear to be.  The jalopy house was perfect as a jalopy.  And it is perfect now as a bonfire.  The imposter never wanted the house in the first place.  Nor did he want to live in that neighborhood.  He hops on his bicycle and rides through the inferno with a calm that only the clarity of knowing what he never wanted can bring.

The impostor bicycles in the night.  Goes down the middle of that empty road so many mistake as enlightenment.  A car swerves past him going ninety plus and yells at him to get the fuck out of the way.  The impostor smiles at the gesture of a control freak trapped in a metal box.  There must be a corollary between men racing in the middle of the night and rapist tendencies.  “Happy that isn’t me,” rejoices the imposter.  

He passes an alleyway that draws him into circling back and exploring it.  Something rubs against his tire.  Another bicyclist is trying to make him eat it.  A teenager bicycling with wooden clogs on.  With newfound clarity about what he does not want, the impostor assumes the other bicyclist accepts the idea of everything and reacts by flicking a sharp turn.  The bicyclist falls harshly on the pavement and the impostor notices that it was just a teenager whose head has swollen to the size of a balloon.  The boy’s eyes and mouth appear stretched as if the head were about to burst.  What a relief to know that he did not want his head to blow up like that. 

A forgotten friend, a con man of error takes in the impostor.  The con man’s home feels like home.  It has the makeshift steps leading to rooms of odd dimensions and peculiar window choices overlooking peak and valley rooftops.  The impostor asks the con man about his recent errors and the con man tells him that he wasted the last month casing a house on a tip that an old lady was harboring some expensive jewelry in her fireplace.  When he finally figured out the right moment and retrieved the goods, a fence broke it to him that the jewels were nothing more than colored glass.  He dumps them on the table and the way the glass jewels scatter reminds the impostor of an idea he had once about the creation of the universe.

A great giant bear as dark as the night lumbers through the void.  The blackness of the void and the bear’s coat intermingle to the point that it is impossible to tell which is which.  In fact, the idea of a void always makes the impostor think of its fur and running his fingers through it.  And this great dark bear breathes in the void until it becomes so full that what comes out of its mouth is a cosmic barf of stars and planets.  All of creation that we know spewing out of this big black bear.  Now the fuzzy void machine can rejoice at ejecting all that it never wanted. 

Over coffee and toast the next morning, the impostor reads in the newspaper that the neighborhood burned down.  But that did not disturb him since he had not only accepted it but rejoiced that he had never really wanted it.  Of course, they managed to save the few blocks of simulated paradise.  What did bother him though is the article about a boy who died in a bicycle accident.  The picture shows a balloon with a face painted on it to represent what his head looked like.  The picture is a grotesque parody.  The news is so sensational about things.  Always amplifying and making matters worse and more silly than they are.  The imposter rejoiced that he no longer wanted to read the news.  

At the funeral, the impostor parks his bicycle behind the church on a hill overlooking its courtyard.  From there, he can see the boy whose head has deflated.  Orchids and Cala Lillies and a swirling assortment of flowers swaddle the boy into what appears as some image of divinity but also something vaguely resembling an ice cream cone.  The impostor takes out his phone but as he holds it up to take a picture, the preacher yells at him to stop what he is doing.  The impostor recognizes the preacher as the MC from yesterday and hollers back at him “why aren’t you rejoicing?”  Has he forgotten his message from yesterday or is he just another hypocrite, wonders the impostor.  This whole funeral scene seems to suggest by its solemnity that everyone present wants to be swaddled in floral ice cream cones themselves.  

Jelly sparkling with seeds as bright as stars oozes through the cracks in the ground.  The bear was here.  The walls of the ice cream labyrinth are melting short-term evaluations under the hot sun.  The sacrificial chimeras are still smoldering.  The derangement of sales and bare bones gratitude materialize into ether.  The theater of fate has collapsed under the weight of necessity.  The despair of the empty hollow is left to those who cannot rejoice at the clarity of what they do not want and find it impossible to accept the idea of everything.  The weird sponge sups on the tragic glory of acceptance as snow falls on the drought stricken oak-laden hills where it never snowed before. 

The dead boy rises from his funeral stage and asks the attendees why they have fallen so quiet inside themselves.  Where have they hidden their inner worshipper?  The boy is happy to be dead rather than listen to the silence of their living souls.  To witness their refusal to believe in what is good enough and true enough.  They say they cry for him but he knows they cry for themselves.  The din of self-pity causes the dead boy to rejoice.  He accepts that the living cannot find the way to open up and see more.  He flies over the impostor whose mind he looks through at a glance and sees what the impostor cannot see.  He telepathically tells the impostor for his own good that every mind has a door inside it which can only be found after decades of scanning over the infrastructure fraught with error.  The boy is too young to know this, but knows it now that he is dead  And only if one knows how to read strange mirror images, might one discover the secret door and then the question is whether or not to open it.  To even crack it open means to be hurled through it.  So the decision must be made beforehand.  If it is decided that the door should be opened, once one is hurled through, one immediately will want to crawl back to tell everyone about it.  Most, however, never make it back over the threshold.  And the few who do, speak in ways barely intelligible to others.  All common conversations will be ruined and unbearable.  Chatting will be an insult to time itself.

The dead boy hovers over the city out to the land where the snow drifts for the first time and relishes the cold snow blanketing his dead skin.  Out there in the snow covered drought stricken hills, the dead boy comes upon a tent the size of a banquet hall fit for the gods.  A small forest could fit under its brown tarp big top.  From the far corner comes a group of floating cosmic bear cubs.  Slowly bouncing off each other like a game of slow motion billiards.  Full of joyful flight, they hover around the dead boy.  He pets them and the fur feels like stroking the void.  They smile and coo at their new dead friend.  His clogs begin to dance a dance he never knew he had in him.  A pure expression pours out through him as if he were a simple and happy marionette.  What is better than a pack of flying cosmic cubs, the boy wonders as he forgets that he is dead and smiles at all he has left behind.