224: 'JUST KILL HIM NOW HE'S NOT FIT TO LIVE' (nov. 14, 1967, nyc)
Like a man I was walking now and my middle was the middle and all the birds were screaming in some bluejay-frantic energy not worth anything at all but the noise it made and as I crossed the straight-line street a gaggle of lights and cars a mess of people all that happened at the very same time : abundant buildings strapped in blacks and greys lined the sidewalks and every window festooned with something trying to lighten the gloom and the upper floors showed the window-cubicles of all those little figures who entrapped themselves in places like that : pencil cups sharpeners family photos and arty pictures all this crap on each indoor window ledge seen from the street and giving somehow a sad glimpse into the private third-floor lives of the traveling people who worked within - walking forth each day to greet the new world which was really the same tired old world and the nearby church yard the old grounds near the park the sad old bricks and broken fountains by the old Friends Meeting Hall and the nearby seminary grounds and all the rest in turn reflected the same dour world : things shorn and broken fallen over and twisted like so many lives and why I was here I asked myself why I was so damned self-examined at every step of the way I could not know and why I wished to dwell alone completely alone the only man on this forsaken and forlorn Earth was beyond me but presented itself as the only option I'd ever care to take part in - one play endless soliloquy one long silence to brood over and a singular lone Mark Twain tree to hang from forever - that was my saddle-Earth middle world place I lived lost soul lost preponderance of evidence sir points to him being guilty points to his guilt death sentence recommended better yet let's just kill him now he's not really fit to live.
