A man arrives on time and logically senses he will not double his existence, his time on God's green tundra.
Quiet desperation. A funny thing happened on the road to utopia. He realized that all he could do is make people happy for awhile. Eclectically he opens a book 'Picturing Indians', and on page four there is an 1873 May photograph of Wah-con-ja-zz-gah(Yellow Thunder) Warrior Chief 120 years old comma seated before a thatch dome. Fast forward 140 years, he knows his words will be automatically recorded, time embossed, and slows his typing, off topic, unfocused though making himself happy. It was easy for him to say. He realizes he cannot translate his own words and is half asleep, remembering that bubbles were the inspiration for the geodesic dome. He also remembers that Eric Hoffer who worked hard all his life time, sensed that, something to the effect or [sic], the American amalgamate would persevere and that Herbert Marcuse in 'One Dimensional Man' proffered that it is only the lunatic fringe that can be observed without regimented predictability. If one 'goes beyond' the logic of what we know. He has 99 points to make but does not feel exceptional. In fact, he is unexceptional, everybody tells him so. He again suspects there is a mean oversoul-oversell-oversold-overspill that exasperates & aggravates & alienates & simply destroys all that is good and holy. Mean animal comes round and is known right away rightward getaway rightly via digital magic, meanness is on the prowl and the man crosses two # 2 sharpened lead pencils outdoorsy on his knees toward the dark morning, the trees invisible, the cold tundra inches deep with ice water saturating dead grass.
He realizes he is naked and begins to howl.