Eastern thought and Dave Mustaine lyrics and watching Sesame Street eating Fruit Loops.

"Locked on military gluttons,

I'm a nuclear murderer;

I am Polaris."

In another dimension perhaps, I am more full, perhaps too less fat, more intoxicating by presence than 120 proof.  Perhaps then, you are there too, seeing this across a gulf of lies, misdeeds and half-measures.  Perhaps too, we decided all this too long ago to still care, and are simply performing screw-turns and button-presses as per regimen.

If we were Buddhistically aware of past lives, past circumstances....  they forecast the recycling of souls, perhaps to explain away their billion or so prancing footfalls in the forests of the evening crimson.

We have something in VBA and Python, "uniques", and we hammer on a Western phenomenon of unique souls, each in its own time and space, and perhaps in that, a kind of biting interconnection, a kind of befuddled "universal" quality to all that passes.

And its just like on Sesame Street, with Elmo, Tully and Grover chanting "one of these things is not like the other".  It's a Sunday morning at time of this rank speculation, and as a child, Sunday morning was my Sesame Street time, in which I would forego the voluntary church trip to watch the Big Bird and all, the songs, the teachings, the letter of the show and all.  And at that, a child seemingly dictating his own destiny, and me as a child, a family-dictated Methodist, and at once, onto PBS, Cyrano on rerun early morning, and Kenneth Copeland extolling faith.

I sit now drinking an iced coffee beverage, masturbating to Dana Bash interviews and listening to 70s music, the old tried and true "mutually agreed upon" hits of yesteryear, and even that mutates such that old number one tracks are forgotten, punted into the ether.  Part of me hopes Barrister Harlow is masturbating too, at the same time, and in that, its like we're touching each other in that same Eastern befuddled way: I mean, the Easterns can't even tell you what the Tao is, though they can write entire books on what it isn't.

"Launch the Polaris;

the end doesn't scare us."

I could Sesame Street that after I napkin-up the gism from the chair pad, and speculate that I could point to a million things that aren't cars or bicycles, or even mouse pads, or that Rita Disney had a bouncy castle, and didn't give a fig or any homegrown whether it got carried with the weather, even with children inside.

Such a campaign, a glorious run through the popular consciousness, for such a dismal result, and I scoff at the play, but am at once also awed by the sheer power, to push one's little scuttle through the whole of society.

The glorious thing, perhaps, some teach is the Unique, though there are so many; seems in more populated lands they are viewed as kind of disposable, Foxconn employees and such, as of the old adage that "the chip has its dip" and all that, you know?

We are but glinting on something, something further, a bit beyond our grasp.  That's where the Tao sits too, just out of vision, across the way, but a vaguery of truth that underpins the universe.