i almost don't know how to talk about stuff no more. that's it, my mind says no more. on the way to mister's back door this morning thinking, when you think of death it doesn't matter, it's liberating, yet so sad that liberation gets wed with annihilation. and i thought of the words of the elect moron g.w.bush, who cares, we'll all be dead. and that seems to be the unspoken mantra still, under hope and change, or make america great again. 
i did not want to go that way again. that trackless waste. i wanted to talk about mister, and how the contemplation of death arises. if he dies, like the contemplation of death, nothing else matters, but this, whatever this is, this life, not the grave nor the wars of the corporate state. mister lay down in a dust of snow on a tree shadow edging a circle shadow, and i have to regard something else happening here that is not the narrative of the corporate state, that eludes every heartless control. life is a mystery. we know only that it is fundamental, and that it is different than death in some way that we have to regard as important, crucial, for life depends on us, life depends on life.