Certain areas of the city find the sound of humans laughing in the dark
quite unacceptable.
(Aka: Those who don’t know what they’re doing always want to see
what others are doing).
For civilization to work properly, and for men to be their standard selves,
floundering needs be done out in the open, in the light;
only the nervous-system-rebel can flourish under cover.
“Is that why the Enlightenment men believe they witness is never the real thing?”
       “Where did you get such a crazy idea.”
 

Performing In The City.
Everyone's life writes everybody else’s material.
 

City Notice Number Four Hundred and Eleven, Dash Four:
To properly live here you must hate evil.
Update To This Notice: To properly live here you must hate stupidity.
Update To The Update: It doesn’t really matter what you hate,
                                            as long as you hate something  --  you’ll fit in here nicely.
 

Entertainment As Practiced In The City.
The paying of someone else to do your talking-to-yourself  for you.
 

In one city, this year’s Cleo-style award for excellence-in-advertising
went to the slogan: “You’ll Wonder How You Ever Got Along Without It!”
(And ‘tis not necessary to know the product or service to which it was attached since the notion works perfectly well regarding any city/cultural activity pursued by men.)
 

The real metaphysical journey is always an original one --
unique to the individual traveler.
 

At a recent city event, an out of town visitor noted:
“If, as you people insist: Exceptions do prove the rules,
then you people have some pretty shabby rules.”
(A dog tugged at his trousers and whispered:
“I think it’s really more a matter of their perceptions of rules.”)
 

If a rebel believes himself in competition with others  --  he’s already lost.
 

On another world just north of here, they’ve cut through all the pointless hocus pocus and declared that the-name-of-the-game is: The Game.
(A few men’s minds can handle all words and concepts like that.
    “Boy, I’ll bet that’s a stress saver.”)
 

Regularly do men create institutions in the city which hang around for a long time;
they do not however, hang around long enough.
    “Does that mean the realization of what’s really going on comes simply by waiting?”
 Are you referring to the blind or the sighted?
The eel that slips past all city dwellers is that it doesn't matter who you are,
as long as you're only you.
    “And I suppose I’m supposed to understand that you mean as opposed to a man
living inside an adorned you   --  the kind needed to properly function in the city?!”
 

One man continues to call himself: I and Me,
even though he has good cause to suspect otherwise.
 

Two guys were talking and one of them mused:
“If the living never think of death, do the dead ever think of the living?”
    “Don’t you mean: ‘If the healthy never think of death…’”
“Well how can you be living and not be healthy!?”
    “Oh!  --  you must be speaking of the mind  --
      I thought you were talking about the body.”
And with that: they both fell silent and attempted to neurally plumb the full depths of what they had verbally raised:
“If those who know how to mentally live do not think of death
(death being how not to live)
then how could those dead ever even conceive of those so mentally alive?” --
an endeavor that shortly brought them to a simultaneous realization;
they suddenly looked at one another and in unison thought: “We’re alone in this!”
Though unofficial, the city’s theme song is:
“There Ain’t Nobody Here But Us,” while that of the brain’s full consciousness is:
“There Ain’t Nobody Here But Us  --  Divided Into Them And Me (That Is):
Into Collective Us And Individual Us.”
Civilians in the dark always feel like someone is there with them;
the man with lighted eyes/I’s knows better.
Fact: You can never wake up early enough to get to Shangri La while
traveling with someone else.
    “And I’m betting the, someone-else you refer to is not another person?!”
Although the conductor seems reluctant to say anything to you overtly,
his body language is sending the message that the passenger train you keeping trying to drag yourself on to will not take you were you say you want to go;
to get to that place  --  you’ve got to hobo  --  alone!
    And one man pouts: “Sometimes this all sounds too pat!”
And another guy says that he is not trying to be overly tough or cautious about that certain subject being herein discussed, but that he still believes he’ll wait for
the callows to come back to Swapistrono before making his final decision.