To  the certain man’s consciousness:
It’s always darkest just before he’s about to doze off.
Motto: “There is nothing that can happen that can’t be made worse
by sleepwalking through it.”
Watchword: Turgid consciousness is almost as good as no consciousness at all.
 

Even should someone say something that could be of use to you,
if you start thinking about them personally you’ll get lost and miss it.
Happnin’ termites have no interest in what kind of tree the wood came from.
 

One man’s lungs said to his cortex:
“Just because you’re breathing doesn’t mean you’re alive.”
 

For the-man-who-wants-to-know: It’s always darkest just before the nothing.
 

Some Of The Strangeness In The Placement Of City Mind.
As entertaining as Psychology and Sociology can be,
they actually hide real understanding of man;
it is not just them, but all of man’s social sciences/liberal arts;
they are part of a fascination the mind has with the second reality it has created
that keeps it from focusing on areas which life clearly wishes it to not.
"No  --  don't look over there, instead: stare at the tip of my finger in your eye/I."

Optometry Update.
It is the size of their consciousness that’s responsible for men's squinting.
 

Ordinary men engage in certain physical rituals in an ostensible attempt to
appeal to alleged gods outside of them   --
since they know not how to directly do so their own consciousness.
 

When it comes to the question of whether there is supernatural knowledge:
The-writing-is-on-the-wall   --   the wall of the awakened man’s consciousness.
 

Conversation.
“All great things are accomplished after a night of partying.”
    “I object!”
“Okay: All great things in the city are accomplished after a night of partying.”
    “It still sounds weird.”
“All right: All great things that men imagine are accomplished in
man’s cultural reality come after a night of partying.”
    “Okay  --  but now you have to tell me exactly what you mean by partying.”
 

The larger you make your consciousness  --
the more it lives in the moment  (if that’s of any interest).
 

Dialogue.
“What’s more embarrassing than to be a suicide bomber
who faints just before the time to detonate his load?!”
    “Or a man who stops before he totally awakens.”
An ugly man will sing to a beautiful woman:
“Let me be your little dog ‘til your big dog comes,”
but a man-who-wants-to-know will not do so the Muse Of Enlightenment.

Everybody thinks they’re Mister Hot Shit  --  'til they wake up.
 

The-man-who-wants-to-know is always on trial  --  but  -- 
he is always not guilty  --  and  -- 
he never takes the charges seriously.

What the ordinary find funny the certain man sees as self-abuse;
the certain man gets nothing from self abuse except sleepy.
 

Everything sounds more serious if you make an acronym of it.
Vacuousness assumes heft with an official patina.
(Just check with the city part of your own thinking.)
 

In trying to decide where and how to arrange the new stereo in his room,
one man was struck with the quandary:
"Which is more important: how it looks, or how it sounds?”
(And the mechanism for word interpretation in his mind nodded knowingly:
“Tell me about it.”)
 

As futile as it is for a woman to sing to a man:
“Don’t come home a’drinkin’ with lovin’ on your mind,”
it’s double so to tell a man-who-wants-to-know to stop it.

When the certain man is in his pushing-out-my-consciousness-mode,
nothing in the entire universe can be going wrong.