She finds herself alternating between a state of cold
detachment and one of rediscovery.
If she is feeling terrible she returns to random New York streets where it is the easiest thing in the world to disappear. She left a message there that no one will ever read. Her lack of ambition is casting a spell and the next generation is going to be more lost than this one.
She sees a kaleidoscope in front of the church windows. She lit several candles even though there was no reason. The statues were beautiful, their shape sumptuous. I pray in two different languages and my heart was present in neither of them. Glass has a strange hold her and she frequently imagines herself breaking glass in her room. It is a fascinating thing to fill in all those missing passages and realize that something which was somehow considered lesser is now on an even keel with everything else. Oh, it feels so good, she can even imagine she was alive during those times and sometimes feels alive right now. I am not very anxious for the next.
She is an architect of fear and they say she has no mouth. Someone somewhere is very desperate to believe. I drop my money in the bag and before I leave I look back several times to check on who may be watching me. She dances inside the goldmine and her body is half animal.
These feelings are slipping and cause a pit of guilt to swell inside her stomach. I would like to hang on to my anger and look back on those other times with a blurry fondness. There is too much joy for me to be sad forever but I am far more effective when walking along a lovingly crooked path. I have no interest in the betterment of anything. Someone keeps holding up a black book in front of my eyes and I am terrified to read any of the words inside because a part of me knows exactly what they will summon. This voice says I am a whore. The way it uses the word “morning” suggests something incredibly frightening. Very soon she is going to whipping herself and exposing raw tendons. When blood splashes on her wall it appears quite bright.
Why has this already dried up inside of me? I have cathedral eyes. I have two sexes. I imagine I will be impaled. All these electronics are wrapping themselves around my brain and I don’t think that sharp looking man in the suit is truly whom he seems. These recordings were made without my permission. How she wishes everyone would stop sending her their lamentations and sympathies. She sees them as false things and wonders what it is floating above their heads when they pray. She tells them to sit back down at their desks and keep plying their meaningless trade. When he is inside of her she feels no relief and instead simply wonders how long it is going to take to finish.
There is a startling lack of self-control on display for such meaningless things. In the middle of the night she begins to draw stars and reads weird things and she is pretty sure she can change the channels of her television by blinking in a certain way and she laughs at the hedonistic messages from people she thought she knew and is now relieved to say they no longer have a stake in things.
She trembles at the transition and there are tears in her eyes when she remembers a decade full of nothing. Would you like to have sex tonight? Can we please stab ourselves in the eyes? All my little clay figures have melted and the bones in wrist no longer support anything. She is going to fly tonight and there is will be no brave soul to step in and take his place. You believe once your dues are paid and it has lengthened you will have done a good job – the best of jobs – and that you will feel fulfillment but this is not true. You are going to wake up deeply dissatisfied and you are not going to understand why. And then you’ll go to a high ceilinged place and we’ll glisten inside again and we’ll spasm and we’ll find comfort in a moment and nothing but hate and futility in our lives.
Trap doors open up beneath her. Believe me my love, she says, I am different and I will never disappoint. Let us pick a name from ancient texts and beg to be sustained. The walls in her room are painted a dark blue and she is going to live there. Every morning when she wakes up she spits out little pieces of her teeth and this makes her laugh. Oh, I must thank you now for the only thing that really matters. This is not an emotion but a genuine and destructive manifestation that creates fierce and degenerative monsters. I think we picked a rather improper trip.
It’s so cold and numb but there has been an irreversible change. Is it blonde life or blood light? She is going to need a very long spoon for the foreseeable future. It is such a pleasure to be swallowed up by something degrading. She paints the worst pictures of herself to be closer to a false promise of immortality. The pitch of your voice is beautiful. My lack of talent is quite obvious when I am silhouetted by the light of the moon. There is no need to pull. She is still going to be blasting this when going through the streets.
We are children of disobedience and it is no longer very fun to be in this universe. On the bed she touches herself while lights flash across her ceiling which may be real or may be imagined. During these moments her face wears a quivering joyless smile and she closes her eyes when she feels too scared. They say she has two gods while another more insistent voice is telling her to jump.
This is now a very very dark place and she fears it is only going to become even darker. I am very afraid something is going to be horrid.
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