One day, I want to see through Scott Walker’s eyes. I want to peel back through a collection of vinyl – larger than the current neatly arrayed martial blocks – and take out Scott 3.

I want to look into the eye of ’67, and see myself as that man existing the pupil; able to withstand the perpetual contractions of existence that mar its utter perfection. I want to fall into that eye, into the disturbing rainy-day dreams and post-apocalyptic nightmares that turned the Beach Boys Stockhausen.

One day, I want to fall through black and end up on the other side the same person, yet unutterably different. I want the undulations that occur right at the rim of sclera and iris, an iridescent storm, reveal itself to me like Cronus, sitting on the rings of saturn; sickle in hand to announce that things never change. I want to see the storm of purple lightning that only exist microscopically. I want the hallways to change timbre, and the music to change direction.

One day, I want to ride the black river of darkness that attends ourobouros; feel the nothing sensation of purity wash over my light-filled veins and make no attempt to crush my existence in its palm. I want to ride those oily scales like fractals that hallucinate to the sound of baritone despair.

One day, in the pit of blackness, I want to hear the crush of a corpse being slammed with a fist and remember that I was once a person; the vibrations of pounding and susurration leaving droplets to reform in perpetual states of torture and sorrow.

But, of all things, I want to see the world through the eyes of infinity, where logic means nothing. And when I do, I will be able to see through Scott Walker’s eyes, and find truth, but no salvation.