I feel like a thousand miles tonight. It's always so long between posts, I really must be more prompt, more punctual, if this is going to be of any worth. A record of the days. Something of a cross between Ecclesiastes and the Song of Solomon.

Tonight I arrived home something like 12:15 or 12:20 after seeing with Val this wonderful British movie about decadent life, Bohemians, the escape from the under-scum of London society. That life and the liberation from it, the sexual undertones, some Baudelairian decadence, as I said, decadence, there it is. It felt like a visual representation of the "Picture of Dorian Gray". It was fantastic. "Quigman and I" or something like that. I can't remember. Two slumming actors go to the country, unwelcome advances by an older gentleman, giant joints, escape.

Other than that the day has been rather uneventful. I went and applied for jobs. I worked out. I practiced the flute. I just wrote an excellent poem. Not an excellent poem. The feeling was excellent, the poem, it was not quite distilled. I feel sometimes as if perhaps they were beakers, dripping, chemical experiences, after all Rimbaud's alchemy, and the feeling were condensed like a mist in the jar, just always can't quite trap it.

Endings; we are coming to the end of our age. Decadence has wasted its way over the world like fragments of exploding population for the last decade millenia and now we are to pay and things will be quite different. Everything will change. I imagine we will still have Shakespeare. But I am the last man looking over the broken shards of a dying age, like glass-blowing in the fire, and after that sand on the silent shores.

Imagine new ruins. I looked at all the books that are being published today at the bookstore, while I was looking to buy and convincing myself simultaneously not to a book of Biblical Hebrew understanding (there's the Jew in me) and I saw all these fiction titles being published. Hack authors. Everywhere out of control. How can we identify the important thinkers of our age? It is all decadence, all of these exploding pages, never has any generation had so many venues and yet so little to say. We prattle on beautifully like Lord Henry in that beautiful low baritone voice about immoralities and nothing. We lose the light.

How I long to see a sunrise. I want to go hiking, I want to look at cliffs and see the mists part, I want to look into all the running ravines and smoothing rivers and all the little dwelling cottage tents peeking through the cracks of the wide grass, the green lawns, the subtle flowers, and then an ocean of peering sky and the golden glow of sun.

Worthless rubbage.