i was reading in the bath, the child, cresspahl's last two eyes, as survivor. and thought about my dad. somebody said i was the last of the s. line, untrue, the genes are still going, and not that i was proud of ending it but i admit it'd be fun to be the last of something, but that's extinction, right, what a perverse notion. it's too creepy to think my eyes are his last eyes, i was colonized enough by his eyes alive, and my eyes were so different from him.
the rich will die out too, though they have heirs and colonies, their spawn money genes, there will be little rich tsunami men crushing trapped populations, rich spawn lording over their devastations. they won't be the last either, but they'll be proud anyway, of so many ends, multitudes of ends, accomplished in singularly devoid lifetime.
this in a lavender bath with campfire incense glowing and a three flame candle, a train rumble, familiar coughing in the next room, reading anniversaries 1. i know i said i was gonna abandon the thing but it seems that was prelude to reading on. i sometimes feel the strange need to abandon things as they seem in order to find the way in, the way they could be, and are, to continue as a father i might have been, echoes of a familiar father strange in a different skin.