What will entertain us when we know that the songs; the jokes; the words; and the monuments to the dead are wasting away each precious and every moment of our intentional oxygenation?
When we hear those sounds that smell of a memory, and we take it deep and hold it and lose out on being. In recapturing the comfort of grandfather’s cigar-stained sofa, or an ex-lover’s sandalwood sweat. That sweet disease of reminiscence; the quiet passing away in your sleep, not you but the potential intake of explosive advance.
What then do we give to be entertained? To watch others unfold fold in, end; to change the channel and titrate up the dose of that which creates a neural vegetable soufflé.
Or, decide to live.