The Waltham Circle

We have a name for a superficially exciting but ultimately bleak state of consciousness: hypnagogia. The street acts like a threshold that has been taken out of context, a place that invites that we smash the idols without any intention of replacing them. Thus, here the nectar of the Gods does not come in a jug - more likely a syringe. The tube, diachronically schematized, at least allows somebody else to remember the pain of the experience. This particular type of pain is perhaps the only thing that we can abstract from the signpost and the little scraps of plastic madness that litter the avenue. This scattering is the most pragmatic, the most poetic and the most positively destructive. But alas, I have slain it all; the blood mixes in the tube, the street... the metaphor lays drunk and deceased on the sidewalk, uttering sweet moan; let us leave this logical carcass for the worms! Let us turn the corner and see something else.
Here is our peripheral ontology: any move toward a center is a type of moving away; we become absurd. I can only hope to become an illegible bit of feverish marginalia, never static and always with static charge, above and below texts.