Today was meant to be okay, but off he went, abusing language, typing at a screen, tilling his head for words, tilting his fingernails to check if he had hidden any ideas under there. Why is he more a concept, and less a person, why is his time more of a chance, than a measurement of days spent star trails apart. He doesn’t know. Does somebody help him? Let’s see. But no. Nobody can ever help anybody.
A collusion silently slides into his head as he comes unstuck in dreams, and his untied shoelaces entangle within each other, almost in the same manner as the spaghetti and rawboned meat he married his mouth to, arranged for it to travel south for a sojourn in his stomach. Everything is fuel when you can slaughter your responsibility, but what can you do when your responsibilities are all that there is, inescapable, laughable, and ugly? And they don’t catwalk on ramps, and stare Adderall-eyed into blank hums of tabloid cameras, but instead hide behind a bouquet and read notes recorded straight from the diary of a romantic author.
So, he snapped, wrote twigs, rolled grass, and shaded toilet-paper with sheer lipstick, and concealed all of it with words like “bedlam”, and “tender”. Soon, it will be alive in the world, wailing thru people’s judgments and their indifference. He told people, and three out of forty of them listened beyond their capacities, that nothing comes out of searching for uniqueness, and to wither vastly and knot your programs and your steps in life to create dangerously your sense of happiness tingles somewhere, resonates elsewhere, within your being, because there’s not more than that. Everything that you do, is contained within you, contaminated by you, but sometimes it seeps beyond you and affects the streams of other life. Is that okay with you? Are you scared, or sorry, or fucking terrified?