Enough incoherent gibberish! I've decided to spice this up with some interviews. Luckily I found Walt Whitman wandering around outside on sixth street smelling like onions, and I invited him to come in and rock the interview. What follows had me sort of doubting Walt's veracity, but I decided to keep an open mind, considering how I think I've heard of Walt Whitman before a few times.
Me: Hi, Walt, what's up, how are you?
Walt: Although I wrestled with my cognizant faculties, desperate to forget, when I was young, in the war, on the farm... and there was a sunny absence in all of the places where my father spent his time, and my mother vehemently denied his death and threw herself into her work, although it was talked about all over our whispered village, the images I saw of the war and its waste were etched upon my mind for all time. The farm was not worth mentioning: blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges, and my four sisters. I lived an austere existence during this time, volunteering with other young men my age to help clear the rubble of falling bombs, translating Pushkin, and knocking around the old relics of bars and cars during the smoky nights. Yet I think of myself not so much as Raskolnikov as I do Zarathustra, for my family despised my desire to fight, my fierceness, my rage. I was poised to fight, my young body taut and somnambulant, but my family was lazy, and afraid, and profoundly uninteresting. My first sexual experience took place during a heated battle, amongst the squelch and slap of soggy peat, with another young man that had despair etched around his eyes. I was trying to decide at the moment I saw him whether I should join my kinsmen in battle, although it would mean death, a cold end, and I could tell by exchanged, tortured glances that we were both prepared to leap into the tumultuous gasp of battle. I was drawn to this young man, who seemed to hold the same ideals, the same lugubrious, misplaced anger, and was equally misunderstood. I preciously kissed the top of his peat-brown head, the mild pods of his eye-lids, and removed his clothes until he was naked except for his --
Me: Um, yeah, so how are you and stuff?
Walt: He was flaxen-haired, undernourished, and his tar-faced blackness was beautiful. The air as it played with our naked forms, the pavonine haze of gunsmoke... it was truly something to behold. It reminded me that there is a certain, voracious power in sex, and vast anonymity, and the power is untraceable, but greatly able to be tapped, so we might be able to power those vast inventions of the future, like spaceships --
Me: So what's it like being famous and stuff?
Walt: What has ever happened... whatever happens and whatever has happened or shall happen, the vital laws enclose all. Any miracle or affairs or persons inadmissible in the vast clear scheme where every motion and every spear of grass and the frames and spirits of men and women and all that concerns them are unspeakably perfect miracles, all referring --
Me: Why are you wearing a filthy suit made of newspapers? And why is there a bit of carrot in your ear?
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