god is dead

For reasons too heartbreaking to go into, God’s Son eluded me. I don’t want to talk about it. I have already commenced finding an alternate life-purpose.
Later, I saw Animal Collective, which of course did not make up for MISSING THE BOAT WHICH CARGOED MY DESTINY, but was surprisingly thrilling–best I’ve ever seen ’em. What’s up with New York, though—applause was just polite, even after a horse’s-length of spastic, backwards cloud-song barking, spirits freed, like we’d walked into the AC’s boy slumber-party and they hadn’t yet figured out we were watching their pillow fight. Totally bananas, totally heart-in-your throat; the next logical step for them was to strip buck-naked and ritualistically liberate one of Siegfried and Roy’s elephants.
The audience? Golf clap.
BUT, when Avey Tare began MEOWING listlessly, place went nuts. Midsong.
New York, are you cat-deprived? You should cop some of that crazy Meow Gilberto; shit is truly like crack, and traverses the whole of the animal kingdom.