The essence of things

So I asked my good friend Spurlock, "What is the essence of things?"
And he replied, "All things are ejaculates of thought, and as I think of ejaculate, I think of all things."
I replied, "I am depressed..."

The boulangerie where I take my afternoon coffee (sometimes spiked with Ardbeg, of course!) has been shut down as of this morning. I remember a boy there who served my bread pudding thrice a week as his schedule allowed him. Always fair and quiet--pallid, perhaps...was he afflicted? I once spoke to him of field mice-they were a subject of great importance to me at the time-and their tails. Tails like whips, like demented rudders that taunt the air and the oar, disturbing the soil from whence we all must have sprung and to which we owe everything we ever borrowed and still borrow. I admire their oil-drop eyes, the color reminiscent of an eight-ball hemmorage. They can only see the world for what it is--one true color, and it is very dark indeed.

The boy brushed aside his wild and wispy hair that defied his eyes like a Ghandi of dead cells and he recited:

"I once loved a girl so bright that daytime appeared as night
and my plight was her flights of fancy
she entranced me romanced me and her fingers
brought about in me all the ghosts that I had known
for her fingers were the fingers of our ecstasies and laments
that linger, her voice of a singer with thread that stitched
everything I had ever lost back to my essence and in the
sensation of revelation I offered the universe my repentance"

So moved was I that I touched his face ever so slightly and told him, "My dear boy, son of every man and woman whose eyes have kissed your eyes, you never lost anything. Because you feel the lack their presence still entombs you. Only when we forget everything do we truly lose anything."

He nodded in silent understanding, left my bread pudding for me and from that moment on we each knew that we were the two ends of the Ouroboros.