I have this and not much more:
Enough spare time to enrich the mind, a humble solitary way of life that satiates a minute of longing, an hour of need and turns a dreaded future into an acquiescing past.
I need this, and nothing more:
Pretty, painful pictures to prevent the descent down to the primitive pith of desire; a beautiful, bloody, black and burning mud.
Sometimes I close my eyes and hold my arms up from my sides, and imagine that I fligh so hy to meet the gods, to enact the dreams trapped behind a child’s lies, to behold the gracious, glorious prayers devastatingly unanswered by the Truth; silly wishes of fools who believe in things. It pulls the taffy laughter from my machine soul, it smashes the salt water tank inside my eyes, it turns me sticky tar black and diamond white, abolishes existence and gives me the exquisite taste of a delicious death. Up here in outer space we are spiritual snakes, the body sheds as a thin slip of skin, the mind dissipates losing itself inside the ether like a fog into the clouds, and no thing matters.
I open my eyes, put my arms to my sides, and feel alive for a day.