Figuratively speaking, one does bear violence for sale splashed onto our substance just as one does withstand every spurious propaganda—as if it could ever be qualified as something else—that the overruling forces our eyes to take in—as if we’re ever eager to tolerate so.

Thus, such simple word reminds us to pause, take a breath, inhale some cigarette smoke—in order to make it, at least, cinematic—, so long as we keep drawing our-mind-opened so that our everlasting yearning for expelling whatever capitalistic madness they try and try, and try to gaslight us with no longer chooses to sink.

So the story goes that humans tend to carry each other’s lives as bittersweet adjectives under their tongues rather than naming reality as it is through the nouns that conceive life’s qualms and reassurances. Just as one tends to find the infinite hiding in plain sight whenever the night gives way to an unsettling dimension fabricated by unexplored thus unexplained darkness, it appears that Ginsberg tried to fill this book’s pages with all of that which the society as a whole (des)misses amidst all of the events that undisguisedly crowd the immensurable space that we dwell in.

When Dorian was found, the only manner through which others could recognise him was by virtue of inspecting his belongings, such had been the changes that his person had gone through as a result of keeping up appearances. One’s miens had inflicted upon one’s visage the weight of their decisions and consequent actions. And, once I’d put down the book, all of these observations led my spirit to embark on a journey that halted at each and every depot in order to reappraise the meaning of life and its subsequent mileage (or what’s left of it).