Love so often cracks to reveal a sadness brooding at its heart. As a human, the tenderness I feel when I look into my son’s eyes is nearly always chased with something not quite bitter, but tasting faintly of regret, of some fundamental and always on realisation that all of this is so fleeting, that we wake so soon from these strange dreams, full of fear and horror and madness and wonder. As I human I clutch it all close around me to hold the dream of my self together – in moments, the wind tugs it all away and I am the signal without the receiver, frozen in boundless eternity. As a human I daily condemn and forgive myself and the world. I struggle with the hate I sometimes feel, the cold judgement dispensed in silence. Sometimes I feel I’m a tool fulfilling my purpose – it doesn’t matter much to the cosmos whether I ever understand what that is or not. I allowed myself to get blown off course so often that I’m still drifting, dazed and seasick, within wretched sight of where I started. I feel old all of a sudden – I feel my hope of human salvation beginning to unravel at an unpredictable pace. I feel like I’m staring into a Lovecraftian horror with the perpetual soundtrack of the ongoing vanity project that is the life of the middle-aged man upstairs, singing to himself at 3 in the morning, his organ in his lap. Outside, the shit stained wetwipes from next door tumble by in skidmarked languor while I run at transcendence with my pants round my ankles. As a human, I find it all very confusing. Not a lot of it makes complete sense to me. I’m sometimes aware that even being as pessimistic as I am, I’m almost certainly being wildly over optimistic about how awful it’s all going to be. It’s almost definitely going to be far worse than I’m letting on to myself. One moment in the calm waters of the knowledge of our probable lack of anything approximating what we would consider to be free will the next the rigging bust in the maelstrom of auto-crucifixion. I get knocked down, I lie there shouting for a bit then I get back up and plod onwards, unto death, where I guess I’ll grit my teeth and shit myself as I leave this foolish man suit (© Donnie Darko) and follow the transmission home.