universal skepticism, incoherence, petulance

"The Solipsist's I", "The philosopher's willowy it" from the poem about breasts and potatoes. That kind of made me not regret KI.

I don't know. I really don't. Because the world is horribly big and there are so many things you can know. It's hard to know what is enough to make me happier and understand better and be less dismally hopeless. Or maybe I'll never be happy just knowing. Maybe I need to construct little poetic sentences, or write long rambling essays with shocking conclusions, or set up a virtual shrine for the Har Kows. I mean, if there is such a wide, unbridgeable gap between what we perceive and what we take to be the external world, is it really so inconceivable that the world is actually a giant Har Kow?

So I am certainly more susceptible to bouts of instability in the wee hours of the morning, right after the Horrible PW Experience.

I have wanted you, wanted art, wanted her (!), wanted the world to be a giant Har Kow. Needs and wants. Demand and supply. Real demand. The point of equilibrium, the point of intersection. But really, who cares about badly sketched graphs? I was never any good with defining things in the first place. Wherever we intersect, I say, wherever our unmathematical, uneconomical graphs intersect, is just about right to me.

It is times like this when I just wish someone would sneak in, break in, grab me violently and shake some sense, some truth out of me.