The barrier island

I don’t wear a watch, but I would wear one with the back plate facing out.

In their college dorm rooms I notice that girls generally block out every available surface under some sort of coral reef of fluffy pinkness, as if they were trying to establish an outer limit or ideal form of cutsiness that could endure in its little cubby-hole of eternity, detached from its environment and plowing through the surrounding darkness forever like an ark. A cubby-hole of eternity is where Friedrich Nietzsche is now, beyond good and evil at last, where we will all no doubt arrive when we reach his advanced state–of decomposition. This might be a golden age for him, since now, between marketability of particular skill set and general economic conditions, most philosophers will probably get a chance to philosophize with a hammer. And the eternal return has something in common with freedom in America today, the freedom of satellites in orbit, whose unobstructed velocity at every moment is straight out to the stars and away from the sun they circle around.

Why do Palestinians and Israelis incessantly contend for possession of the same meager little plot of land, when it’s those who have never seen it or can only peek at it only over the boundary fence of exile who get to possess, in image form, an infinitely more beautiful Holy Land? I’m not sure you can quite call it a real contest, since when Israel shoots rockets for two days hundreds die, while even after years of practice the Palestinian rockets still fly so errantly that I don’t see why they don’t just turn them around and aim them downwards at the launching stand. After all, that’s the only way to be sure that a missile will hit its target. I suppose that’s what the self-detonation is about. But I don’t get why the beards are all in such a rush to blow themselves up and ascend to God’s Kingdom, after seeing that the dusty brown jail that everyone is fighting for is the best set-up He can apparently arrange for His favorite peoples.

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