I’m pretty glad about it, all things considered. If I could do it again, I would in a heartbeat like I already am. Like, get a load of this shit! God damn I’m a literal image! God damn I’m living gorgeously! God damn I’m an actual magazine, selling myself to everyone, and saying thank you every time. I’m in a generation state, riding right along the line and coming up against the physical limit. It’s an exhilarating, not noble, pursuit. But I think this time I’ve actually found it...
I’m making connections all over, even where they shouldn’t be. I’m seeing the time go by. I am approaching dangerously close to a moment of absolute truth, a total and unflinching union of it and me. My brain is making crazy shapes and buzzing noises, and I’m going back to nowhere—I love it. I know that heat is just another sensation. I’m starting to understand why they call it a flash flood. I had already begun losing faith in the idea of holy reward—Did you know this? Did you know that I was losing faith? Communication is key. Maybe just an open dialogue could’ve solved all that thing. Maybe this is a letter to you. If it is, it always has been. Doesn’t matter, now, anyway.
I’m there and not there in the mirror, right where my eyes should be.
The phenomenon described is not a bad one. It is strange and superficial, mostly. There’s a feeling like your ears popping, pressure building to a change in state. I still feel our frequency. I still know everyone I’ve ever met, even briefly. I see your face in all of them, in some capacity or from a certain angle only. I’m still a little scrambled from that business back there we won’t mention. The soft palette’s crumbling, my guts all falling out of my throat and stuff. I gained a ton of weight, and then I lost it back again. All it did was wear me out. My feelings are ocean-sized, and drowning me with everyone. It’s totally crazy. I don’t know why I tell you all of this, but I do.
Well, I guess I’ll say it: thanks for this, and everything.
For what it’s worth, it’s pretty awesome. This was never the original plan. But look how well it’s going. You can’t argue with results like that. I’m not crazy—I worry too. I just see it all empirically. This life is thankless and unsolicited. Also unnecessary. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never thought it was going to be easy. I just didn’t think it’d be this hard.
I’m practically flying down Lex, wondering what it is you’re up to. I guess that’s none of my concern. Everything I write these days has the rhythm of a definition, like those words I’d learn and jot down just to show you. Numinous—Arousing supernatural or spiritual emotion. Anasyrma—Lifting the skirt. Say what you will about me—No really. I want you to say it. Write it on a card addressed to PO # 98917, New York, NY, 10013.
We invade our stranger places, I know that more than anything. If there’s one thing I’m good for, it’s this. I did the things that filled me, when they did. But what about the crisis? Yes, the crisis. It’s enough to break your heart. A very “modern” affliction, ours. But I know how to keep the energy going. If you think it’s wild now, watch out. After this it gets real weird. I’m eating the left handed sandwich. I think I’m disappearing. The seagulls upstairs are going fucking crazy—It’s heartening. I’m just kind of a freak, I guess. I’m fucked in a situation. But I learned this thing the only way I could, the way I had to. I learned this thing by doing.
You really have no idea what it feels like. I don’t know where I am, or how to find me. I guess I should tell you now I really haven’t been sleeping, and the dreams have to come out somewhere, don’t they? Seeping through the cracks like mold or memory. It’s like I always say: I can be perfect, or I can be good. The choice was already made for me. I used to be young and different, different than how I now am anyways. I don’t know what direction I went in. I know I didn’t get any better. But if you can believe it, I used to be a whole lot worse. I was a tyrant and a champion, a genius and a junkie, I was everywhere for one single moment, a star at its highest point—I tried being lots of things. Mostly I was just so tired.
I was in love with you, then, in a way—All of you, New York City, Dear Reader, on your knees.
I really did mean everything I ever said. And the function of a magazine is in fact its duration, so short that it never ends. I told you already, it’s a promise. An eternal return. It’s over now, this is all I’ll ever write—Take great care gladly. Rent’s paid up to the end of the summer, and I won’t be coming back here. But if I do, I’m running that shit like a business.
Best,
Ethics Magazine
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