Bikini, tennis shoes, and the458 from Instagram.

How rapidly we chain ourselves to those self-defeating causes, impossibilities, improbabilities, the boulder that Sisyphus essentially stood behind, straining his back.  Imperatives like the bikini and tennis shoes Nicole in the Countach, the 458 on Infragram.

Faulknerian self-defeatism, Chekov's walk hoping its only self-defeatist and a universe fixedly unfurls its intuition that dust is dust, and the haunted house door handles hourglass themselves into the creep of rust, Viktor Frankl.

Was it that Sisyphus pushed the stone, or was it that he simply prevented the stone's natural declination, in the crushing of him?  Was it that he forsook happiness?

In my notes, I see this:

I done seen, driving around through a thin haze of lingering pine smoke, a buzzard eating a tiresmushed snake.  And i thought, "hello, America."

I approached, and the carrion trevailed the perpendicular, away from the blacktop towards the volunteer oaks, through the slight menthol of the pine smoke.

I heard a kitten in the bushes, despondent, and i was drinking in the experience, before the realization hit me that is was crass, high-minded abandonment, but i could not, should not, and would not, be all places at once.

A stranger along the tarmac passage seemed to have soon after taken up the poor creature, and i could then only beniggle over the panaroma of life, about.

I talked to the mountain woman at walmart, concerned of her well being, her set of mind and predicament of personhood; but would of my bent?  What of my own positioning along the whoosh of toilet flush: the vitreous, life, abundant and varied, and the puzzle piece only speaking to me in fragments, and in fits and starts at that; life has not changed, but only keeps going, whispering to those who would hear, a shoebox diarama of larger truths that only flit near the edges of the senses.