Planktonic Larvae

By this I write of freedom, of the gyre in the South Atlantic where all our noncollectibles are accumulating, in vast bulk, to the detriment of albatross and to the amusement of planktonic organisms now hidden among the considerable shelter of a false Sargasso. We do not float our leftover submersibles here, pity, nor is there an active volcano inland of California within which to tunnel, endlessly, through the very hard igneous rock, building gallery after gallery in the darkened vault of the earth, in short, chaeotgnaths but no dragons, arrow worms but precious few arrows. What I am getting at is absolutely nothing. My purpose is to illustrate a sort of confusion, a hunger for that feeling I had when I was merely twenty one years old and finally able to justify buying beer of my own, growing on the windowsill of my own apartment, this same city years younger in my mind, and I had the energy to confront it all, but none of the resources. I want drugs, I want them badly. I want the drug that makes my mind swell like a kitchen sponge left in a pool of gasoline, so that I can see even more of the cosmic all, from my back porch, and measure every trivial moment of time in terms of its true, unique importance. Another summer drifts by, Sargasso-like in its moment by moment sloshing, in its quiet chorus of birds and its often neglected arrangement of smells. Sex. I want sex and I want it badly. If I were a Viking, I would desire to kill things as well.