This Affliction of Days

This affliction of days is a titanic pain in the balls, if you ask us. There's yesterday and today and tomorrow and that's at least three too many days already, yesterday today and tomorrow are three too many days already, and don't even get us started on the tomorrow after tomorrow and the tomorrow after that tomorrow and the tomorrow after that tomorrow, there are a solid falling ton of tomorrows in this affliction of days that didn't start yesterday but many many yesterdays before that, at the portal of the womb, which one flees the way a man flees a burning house only to find himself in a flaming nightmare, it's a great metastasizing affliction of the balls, this life, with its yesterdays and todays and tomorrows that come at you with their talons flashing, so you want to duck out of your own life the way you would a room with a roaring tiger in it, this affliction of days like a room filled with man-eating zoo creatures on the chairs and sofa and sprawled across the carpet, it's a massive and ultimately demoralizing affliction of the testicles and the perfect antidote to the will to live. But what are you going to do? We go on. We go on through this affliction of days because we lack the imagination to stop going on. Suicide is not an act, it's a fearless imaginative leap across the sucking black void of the unknowable. It's a job for unheralded sad sack geniuses, who possess (these great unheralded sad sack geniuses) the imagination we lack. Because we're too dumb. It's like the Great Kat once said: "I am bringing my genius to idiots who cannot go out and reach it for themselves because they are too stupid."