I was the king of Paris back then. King of a place that no longer needed a king. King of a people that had threatened to "make lace out of Marie Antoinette's entrails.
Every time you ejaculate, you have a small heart attack, you die a small death -- to live a larger life. That was about the extent of my philosophy back then. To paraphrase Rousseau, "I am born free, and everywhere I am in relationships. But no, I mean, that doesn't sound right either. I'm not in my right mind now and I wasn't back then. In keeping with the psychological domain of kings, I was edging toward paranoia.
Lack of sleep, lost bearings, lunging at ghosts, or something like that. Yeah, OK, but there were verifiable odd moments that were rich in imprecision and ambiguity.
Hallucinations of emotion melting into concrete. And I know all about the phenomenon of synchronicity mystification. I also know all about the gang mentality -- one needy hoodlum poet feeding another under-esteemed artist's sense of self by the weaving of phenomena with fable and paranoia.
In any case, keep in mind the old adage that paranoia is the first respite of the under-esteemed. What better way to think more of yourself than to imagine or KNOW you are the target of what may involve international players with a budget. What that plot might involve had something -- we and the cheap vin du table figured -- to do with international cultural perceptions of alternative lifestyles and how the U.
