BOX [B.O.D.C]

One minute is enough, a person has to work hard for it, but a minute of perfection is worth the effort. A moment is the most you could ever expect from perfection.
On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything.
The people who used to sit in the bathroom with pornography, now they sit in the bathroom with their IKEA furniture catalogue. You buy furniture. You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple years you're satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you've got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug. Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you. If you don't know what you want, you end up with a lot you don't.
The gyms you go to are crowded with guys trying to look like men, as if being a man means looking the way a sculptor or an art director says. Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer.... Maybe self-destruction is the answer. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile. you're not how much money you've got in the bank. You're not your job. You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself. You're not your name. You're not your problems. You're not your age. You are not your hopes.
We don't have a great war in our generation, or a great depression, but we do, we have a great war of the spirit. We have a great revolution against the culture. The great depression is our lives. We have a spiritual depression.
Nothing is solved when the fight is over, but nothing matters.
This is freedom. Losing all hope is freedom. May I never be complete. May I never be content. May I never be perfect. Deliver me from being perfect and complete.
For thousands of years, human beings has screwed up and trashed and crapped on this planet, and now history expectes me to clean up after everyone. I have to wash out and flatten my soup cans. And account for every drop of used motor oil. And I have to foot the bill for nuclear waste and buried gasoline tanks and land filled toxic sludge dumped a generation before I was born.
I want to burn the Louvre. I'd do the Elgin Marbles with a sledgehammer and wipe my ass with the Mona Lisa. This is my world, now. This is my world, my world, and those ancient people are dead. I want to blast the world free of history.... picture yourself planting radishes and seed potatoes on the fifteenth green of a forgotten golf course. You'll hunt elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of new york, and dig clams next to the skeleton of the Space Needle leaning at a forty-five degree angle. We'll paint the skyscrapers with huge totem faces and goblin tikis, and every evening what's left of mankind will retreat to empty zoos and lock itself in cages as protection against the bears and big cats and wolves that pace and watch us from outside the cage bars at night. Recycling and speed limits are bullshit they're like someone who quits smoking on his deathbed. Imagine stalking elk past department store windows and stinking racks of beautiful rotting dresses and tuxedos on hangers; you'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life, and you'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. Jack and the beanstalk, you'll climb up through the dripping forest canopy and the air will be so clean you'll see tiny figures pounding corn and laying strips of venison to dry in the empty car pool lane of an abandoned superhighway stretching eight-lanes-wide and August-hot for a thousand miles.
I see the strongest and the smartest men who have ever lived... and these men are pumping gas and waiting tables. All a gun does is focus an explosion in one direction. You have a class of young strong men and women, and they want to give their lives to something. Advertising has these people chasing cars and clothes they don't need. Generations have been working in jobs they hate, just so they can buy what they don't really need. We have to show these men and women freedom by enslaving them, and show them courage by frightening them.
I am the all-singing, all-dancing crap of this world.... I am the toxic waste by-product of God's creation.
I've met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, "Why?" Why did I cause so much pain? Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness? Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love? I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God's got this all wrong. We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens. And God says, "No, that's not right." Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.