All the fascinating people with the golden things to say were at a different party, earlier tonight. And tomorrow morning you will wake up in the wrong bed in the wrong house on the wrong planet, asking yourself how it happened that you arrived in this body and world and the tenacious situations created at their intersection. The toast will be burnt. The coffee too weak. The day too not what you dreamed. But then you will seek comfort, and find it for awhile, in a religion or philosophy that looks on the bright side. Good things are coming. Good things are coming. And you had good things, once, back when it wasn’t this, and, hey, chin up—it won’t be this forever. So you walk down the wrong street in the wrong city and imagine how good it will be when you finally do all the right things and wrest satisfaction and happiness from the throat of this life. It will be too hot outside and you’ll remember with a sigh that it was too damn cold not long ago. You imagine the conversations you’ll soon have with the people you love and they will forgive you or chase you away and you will play a kind of conversational chess down these contrary paths, crossing out what not to say while storing away all the golden things. And they will finally say please, stay for tea or tell you get bent and, when they do—either way—you will be very kind and magnanimous. And you will learn to play guitar and write songs that are already written except, this time, you wrote them and all the people love you and weep when you sign your autograph. When you die, they will be sick to their stomachs and all the cars will stop. The streets will be flooded with mourners mourning double, mourning both for you and a seat in the overcrowded church. The crammed mourners in the church will be in violation of building safety codes and the mourning firemen will pull wailing mourners outside, for their own safety, while the mourners inside form a line to the podium to say all kinds of golden things. Then a car door will slam and a crow will caw and your long paragraph of delusion will end and skip a line.
Because that slam and that caw just then, when it was now, will slam and caw through all your fantasies in a way that messes with your sense of tense. You will think I am someone who just heard a slam and a caw. No. I am someone who just thought “I am someone who just heard a slam and a caw.” No. I am someone who just thought “No. I am someone who just thought ‘I am someone who just heard a slam and a caw.’” and so on; you will chase yourself to the nearest edge of the moment until you and the world embrace in seamless weirdness that was always right here. It’s always right here, even when you’re not.
You will walk home then, down the golden street. Enjoy it while it lasts. It won’t.