& now what pleasant paralysis colors these afternoons a blur ablaze in lassitude bathed in lightspeed wasted? & then when it ends blended across the edge, that last almost but not quite infinite retrospectacular technicolor flash when the eyes go final wide with perspective for once & once only perfect, what then? what now will be seen as having been regrettable then? what if it is more or less the opposite of the purposeful pull of this guilt what if every dutiful rational act that felt right like sacrifice is what should have been done different when all’s said & over? what if none of this matters because i am only approximately the seventeen billionth soul to wonder something suspiciously like this only minus most of this fancy bullshit? what if my numbers are way the fuck off & only a handful of us punkass flakes ever bother with this wondering? what if there is no way to know now what will have been wasted then, what if these afternoons spent blissful indolent spinning words across keys with hands that dance vivid with wistful grace were spent precisely how they were meant to be, making these vague misgivings misguided at least & at worst an obscene waste of some thing i cannot tell you what it is however i do know i don’t know what it is & also i must admit it is not even afternoon anymore in fact it is now months & miles from where i spilled the first words of this & still.