The suspense is killing me, hanging by my suspenders,

by the thread of my own imagination, the interminable distance between two points waiting to be traversed, knowing that if I’m lucky, I’ll still only get half-way there. The waiting is almost the hardest part, time being the minor dimension in the human portion of the space-time continuum. At least time is a dimension reconciled by mind, modern and digital, while space still insists on doing everything the old-fashioned analog way, moving points and lines and Euclidean surfaces around turn-tables and time-tables and hoping for the best. Maybe anticipation is the true middle path, moving perpetually along multiple paths of fulfillment but never totally arriving, always striving for the next goal. Boredom is the most insidious enemy of modern society, dissatisfaction with the status quo no matter how high the status. Demand has a curious way of always staying one step ahead of supply. Only art can stop the insipid dialog, cease the endless dialectic. High culture is the oxygen that sets minds burning with thoughts and answers to questions that haven’t even been asked yet. If causality is a casualty of the negotiations for a cease-fire on the domestic front, then so be it.

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