"Life will go on. Millions of people tonight will eschew prayers and icon, even connubial relations, in favor of Dave (and other ironicists), waiting for their displacement-prophecies and self-caressing lyrics, to lullabye them into meaningless dreams of leftover passions -- a common bizarre experience for a fragmented, disaffected soul.
It's hard to sleep, to rest, nowadays. What's demanded these days is a narcotic to bring on narcosis, since the sleep of good work, grief and joy, is so hard (notice how many sleep clinics there are?). What's wanted is a nightly, fanciful dose of ironic anaphora that repeats, in vain caressing repetition, the invocations of a chuckling world without sin -- sinless because, you know, camouflaged in shadow."
Adapted from Second Terrace.
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