The skull is a repository of insects mating; etymological before death, entomological after. This is vaguely Burroughs, or totally. Though he was also fond of virii; basically, what gets dealt with are rhythms which catch and multiply in us, as they may. This all sounds so certain, but only because it has to, to survive. Who is the past writing to? Are we worthy of it? Of course, but it’s a joke mainly that a smarter century would write letters to one which took its wits about it to dismantle everything. And so many new forms to be dealt with from those broken. This is like how when you shroom phrases sometimes get caught in infinite loops that evolve into nonsense, that is to say, they evolve beyond your capacity to make sense of them. Which also yields anxiety as a surplus capital. Or ecstasy. Anyway.
