An Introduction

He was going about the place, barely skimming at anything for more than two seconds, his mind splendidly isolated from any thoughts with good or bad implications. There was a certain constant shifting of states, between a relaxed, lethargic dormancy and a self-enforced cognisance. He submitted to the sleep that offered content and salvation, but his apathy brought an ironic counterpart of guilt, and he suddenly found himself questioning his relaxed state. However, this empowering consciousness was so plastic that it was only a matter of minutes before he was sucked up in what seemed like an unending sleep. A sigh led to a dilation of pupils; the blood rushing towards his brain kept changing mind. This recursive state shift, which he regarded as a social behaviour, was independent from the physical reality: he felt the flow through sleep, breakfast, commuting, work, chatter, flirting, lunch, poetry, masturbation, TV-gazing and what not. Now, he was relentlessly circling about the house, catching a glimpse of the wearied wallpaper, the storied walnut furniture, and the bathroom door. Every now and then a part of the parquet under his feet would let out a squeak of a third state of being, but it was so ephemeral that he did not want to go mad in the pursuit of breaking out of his dual existence.

All in all, Crosby was a regular man.

He was named Mobius Humphrey Crosby, and neither Mobius nor Humphrey offered practical labels. He never adopted the idea of being called Crosby, but as all inherited features, this one was not to be trifled with.

Notes for the Day of Judgement

When William Carlos Williams wrote,
"Of the air of the coldest room it will seem to
build the hottest passions."
he was talking about it.

This is not to be withstood, for
the hottest of the days will be fiercely cold,
and there won't even be a last day
after all because the end will arrive
with night, and the sun will be
forever upset, and even then,
in the coldest of the heat
you can find inspiration. Fear not,

do not expect, and let your
greatest expectation be not expecting.

Impatience is a virtue in that it
allows the end to be pointless, and finding
the passion to fight the end 'til the end
is only existing in an endless pit of impatience.

The end is only good as long as
there's being, and ceasing to be has
no meaning without being in the first place.

So, when T.S. Eliot wrote "not
with a bang, but with a whimper"
he was talking about it. Don't
mind me talking about it. I'm
barely humanesque.