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The sermon for Sept. 21, 2002 is: shalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
12:59 p.m. I tell myself I will limit myself only to functional speech, only to say the absolute minimum required to pass as a social being, and live out the rest of my days occasionally croaking out the words "Yes," "No," and "More." I imagine myself a wizened old man, not unlike the oracle at Delphi, complete with sagging breasts and insights of augury, chewing my toothless gums endlessly and watching the ever-devolving world ever devolve, crawling the streets of the world from KFC to KFC, looking for recycling and roadkill, selling blow-jobs for pocket change, clucking "Yes! No! More!" at schoolchildren like a mongoloid Flying Dutchman. I tell myself this will be an admirable use of my hours and times, pursuing a silence unpolluted by trivium, finding that fugitive and divine nothing, listening to the quiet, the awful smallness of god. I resolve that I shall never utter an inane or stopgap quiddity again, that whenever a passerby nods and mumbles, "How are you?" I will stop, and draw a deep breath, and respond honestly and completely, so that I may restore the dignity and gravity and acknowledgement to that question that it once upon a time possessed; once upon a time, I believe, people said "How are you?" out of genuine compassion, don't you think? But now I think we say it to one another to warn of our oncoming approach, so please don't shoot. Like all language does eventually, these words fold inward to shield and anneal us from one another; words begin as daggers, but their edges blunt, their meanings dull. And like everything I write when I do automatic writing, language becomes a boiling sea of galimatias and metonymy. This is why I will limit myself to functional speech: YES NO MORE  
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