"Are you restless like me?"--Tom Gabel

As I sit, chilled and moistened by a Northern California atmosphere engorged with the dampness of a late January evening, the metronomic ticking of a cheap wall clock my only soundtrack, I become vaguely aware of something deep seeded. Quietly seething, I reflect on something buried within my Id: a certain repressed ebullition, a subsumed magma seeking a passage through the Earth's tectonic plates.

Names like Haymarket, Watts, El Mozote, Bogside, and Rosewood come and go, reminding me of a political phlacidity. They echo off the insides of this body, still aching from an anesthetic made of India pale ale and Irish wiskey imbibed some two days ago. That anesthesia, which at the time seemed, and in ways still does seem, so necessary to annihilate this sense of economic and political eunuchism stewed in a pot under which burns the fire of a past that I am far less than comfortable with.

Hence, an effluence of verbage which I flush out a pipe, leading only to an endless cybernetic ocean in a vain, narcissistic attempt at personal validation. In other words: Anti.