There is a part of my being that roots for him every night. With bated breath, I join the throngs, eager to witness history in the making. Like horny high school sweethearts, we wonder if tonight be the night. But with the storm clouds of allegations swirling around his stature, he stands at the brink of greatness and infamy. Still, it would be sweet poetic justice if he’s forever stuck at 754. No asterisk needed, just another footnote in the long history of the sport.

I’m now sleepwalking the silent streets, chemically intoxicated, but like an unfazed Horatio Caine, I survey the scene: larger-than-life creatures preen and prune themselves, birds of paradise caught in an urban jungle. Hiding behind vapid masks and fumes of machismo, they challenge me to refute their maxim: I think that I am, therefore I am.

The ghost of Descartes is gagging, but the words of Wilber peer through the ether. Our identity is constructed from four distinct and fundamental perspectives: interior, exterior, collective, individual. We are the product a bubbling mixture of images – either forced upon or gladly swallowed. We are a projecting species, not unlike Arctor’s scramble suit.

Look in the mirror – do you recognize who you see? I touch the image before my eyes and flinch. Daltrey’s primitive howl shatters my visage, and I won’t be fooled again.

It’s summertime, and while the living is easy, restlessness hangs in the air. Its muggy tendrils slither down throats, gently suffocating our collective psyche. In the land of make believe, boulevards of broken dreams bring me to a scorched and barren wasteland. My imagination raped and brown bunnies mocking, I struggle to comprehend this Inland Empire. A clever stratagem, shock and awe: on the battlefield, sheer dominance leaves combatants battered and bruised and always confused. Something is rotten in this state of hyper-reality…

Hush now, do you hear the siren’s seductive call? Her symphony of destruction entices and enchants. Oh, to be Odysseus… satisfaction is risky business. Transfixed upon the why, I stand on the banks of the Rubicon and hesitate. Frozen in this moment, I’m reminded of a tautology from the good words of Melvin Kaminsky: Everything that happens now, is happening now. Time is never time at all, it keeps on slipping into the future.

I’ve been searching for truth and clarity, and all I see are the ripples I’ve caused.

But that’s the whole point, n’est-ce pas? I wouldn’t want to disappoint.