C.S. Lewis Vs The Truth, and Us

Serious normal, and quirkly, and who do we come to? When the pen's dissolving in your hand, and the letters you write yourself, now, are blurring, misting, dissolving, dieing on the page in front of your own fucking eyes. Who do we look to for a moment of clarity in the turmoil of the tempest, but The Beaver. Crouched in his filthy nest in the corner, eyes glittering in the night. John is a man in a kilt, wearing a blazer. Earlier he was cuddling the small, miscellaneous animal which came from golfclubs. He's sleeping with his eyes open. He's weird. This is what we turned to, trusting, adoring, newborn, hopefulls, waiting to have it all taken back. Made freh. Made new. But then we realised we were wrong. That it never had, never will be, and never could be. And it's over. Done. Never to be remembered, in a fraction of a look. A story. This is it. Now. Unfolding in front of your eyes. You can't see the essential skeleton feel of this notepad. You can't see. You can't understand. Not you. This is not for you. This either is or in't. Do not fight this. This is weird. This is smash. This is everything you've ever wanted to know, right here. Kicking and screaming. Throwing, crashing, sliding. Give in to the inevitable and just let it all go. Your fumbling inability to grasp the fundamentals of what is. What this IS. See the smash! The only thing within sight of us is out of sight to me. The only Thing. Things. Disjointed fractures. Spinning. Sliding. Crawling. Things. Things in your throat, coming through your arms and melting into things which have been your life's bedrock. These are the things. And we're going to have to hire professional cleaners to get this sorted out. It is much more serious than anybody, anywhere, ever, except us, could hope to deal with. It is ours. Yours. Mine. Ours. Cradle this knowledge and nurse it into fulfillment. This is your life and it's ending one smash at a time.

Goodnight.