fiction is

I live in car crashes.
There's something incredibly
sensual in the chaos
of two vehicles joining
in a violent ballet of
twisting metal and showering
glass, in one swift moment,
and at ninety-two Gs, leaving
the fates of (at least) two
lives in the hands of unforgiving
steel and merciless asphalt.
And physics.

I live in car crashes, I wait for
them. They are final, and lasting.
They define beauty. They define
desire.

I got pictures on my mind

Twenty days later and empty.
Starting over.
Reboot.
I may find myself forgetting
casual consumerism.
To the greatest extent possible.
What's the point if I can find
another path, one of least(er)
resistance?
Hello, the year is 1984 and I
live in Airstrip One.
Where have I gone?
Where have I been?

Where am I going?

"Believe me,
if I started murdering
people,

there'd be none of you left."

Our world is sane
and I am out of my mind.
Out of my mind.
Ot ou me mine.

The sun is in tune.

I've lost my mind.
My soul.
My self.

Bring it back.