The Selfish Self I am my world – A world apart. Apart from me there is nothing. The world is mine. It arises from the uniqueness of my life. My life is the world and the world Is how things stand. And how things stand is my life – And only my life. What counts is me. I number myself: A one wrapped inside a zero. I stand alone, a single bulb Lighting the whole room, Enclosed by walls that are my sphere. I have no doors or windows. No

On the Point of Vanishing Cogito ergo ends with a sum beyond my reckoning: Thoughts add up and multiply exponentially like numbers. I must have miscalculated. It’s what happens when you cannot count on your own mind to make sense of the world. This time I’ll square the root - 100,000 to 316 to 18 to 4 to 2 to 1.4 to 1.2 to 1.1 to 1 - and keep on subtracting 1 to 0.5 to 0.1 … I arrive at a bare fraction of a thought, a mere variable

Everything Adds up to Zero This means a stationary object stays equal. And the object remains in the same state of motion force. The resultant force is zero. Falling object is stationary zero. There is a movement. Still end up zero. And a moving object continues to move, returns sum with zero. All forces acting reach terminal velocity where their resultant force is zero. And the sum same zero. Zero is reached at every move. Sum of the objects eventually zero. There is

Zero Agonistes “Zero” -- he of the failed harvest and wormish incarnation --, Has declared war on heaven. It is his special election. But there he sits: Half-heroic, sublimely pathetic, eternally Pregnant, revelling in Pain and difference, Plying his matrix of unbearable contradictions. A holy, unholy, (un)righteous fool, Unable to bridge across! Come now, O Zero, You great entropologist, Stop teasing the gods with your slothful excesses. You’re just an ape-like Idiot

Titan Zero The weight of the earth is loss: The titans have vanished from the page and Krónos our captain (carrioned by his own creations) lies heavy, buried beneath the playwright's stage, (hammer and reaping-hook too). Father and son to time’s gravitational pull (but never victor), it will take more than a god to undo the things he’s killed, and more than a star to see flesh returned to the world.

Zero and the Anti-Dollar Zero sat still with the anti-dollar in his scarred palms. The war had begun and the fear was flying through the air like blood. Zero felt the poison stir in his lungs. The television was growing fat with virulent statistics, hospitals and fire. He stared through the screen and imagined a V-sign projected on the far wall. The anti-dollar sweated in his hands: it made his veins thicken with potential. Zero painted on a mask with chalk; stocked up on fis