Ten-Million, four-hundred-and-thirty-thousand Euclid paintings cementing my eyes to the walkway on my way there. But beneath comets set in green flies. I was an empty nut case, with a nametag that read Brian T. in Sotoscript. The ex-legless elephantine eye whose gut microbiome determined stock-market prices for the next two years was ambling up closer from the opposite direction, snookering the ground with the heel of his big toe. Like pageantry for a marmalade commercial or something. Or the umber in dream time whose face occludes whatever is going on behind it. The neck down a swaying beam of black. Horror. Scrambling for keys. Remembering not to wall it. Ventilation. Ventilation enking ee.
I have to pump music into the earcups in order to drown out the sound of people around me. And remind myself I am essentially alone; it is more true. Or not. I am not sure of many things. Perhaps this, engine kissed cherry-kissed sunspot of the back of my eyelids taking in sunlight off grass below me. Perhaps this. Negligent parenting for a fortune of dimes. Perhaps this. Turbines on acid in rainsoak bulleting wheely winds out facially rippling. My microphone in jejune. My calliope register. The draining. X the Y participle. X the Omega saffron. My diet is killing me.
Then, too can it be said: necked red-arts like spirits in the borealis of reality frames. I encourage you. To go see them. Sometimes also it helps to not look at the words on the page but rather your hands writing the words on the page. To not focus so much, on the object. In leaving, we have you set foot in dear expligennn naught raincoats rainforests reindeer hopping whiled like ninnies cooped up all alone on the blear end but sanction four-thirteen the first door on your right wait for me, dear. I ‘ssssssss’ the hiss. The mission you find out is actually going on but is not real in a dream you are having that is actually going on but is not real. To do with why you’re walking alone down an empty hotel hall lavish. To find out the world is with you but is itself alone. To discover what the meaning of not just your life but of every life is. To hear background radio mugen and seek. But the door is just a door again. To pull back the curtain all bleary-eyed and numb and to false-signify and to weigh low and featherbed the hurt signal eaking mousily from the SCAD towned. Downy down-singe. Pillow burke. Ssss while I cuff myself to a light pole as instructed by the higher angels. Ssssss. Ssssss. Wained think Vo nautilus thinks he’s crazy. SSSSSSSSSSSS. This, too. Perhaps. Wait while. Sssssssssssssss. Again. There it is, in you. That scowling curl of hope destroyed like when you’re just a sea fly and the oven is on around you. Tank my face. Facelessness. Thisening. Bitterer. Scruples. Carting the bike out of tiredness to heat self’s skin and watch neighborhood gather to fly a single kite. Beautiful. Beautiful, blue kite. On somehow bluer sky, vibrating with wind. Denser ending not because nothing wasn’t nud jest true faces bark like trees’ outer layers sin. Blank rogue range oozing effortless. Out under my eyes. While standing, standing still. The door is just a door and I walk through it. The room inside is just a room. Just. Justice for whom? Whom. Whom? Justice for whom. Yes. Reague. Read? Reague. Like how? Like what. Like what.
Because he’s gathered the gumption. He is a soul narrating, he thinks, but he’s not. The soul he thinks he is is like a node in a vast network of nodes. And the network itself is more like what he thinks a soul is. Except, I’m wrong.
IW. E Z Ned sssss Peck. ZZZZZ heliotrope. Hhhhhhhh how? No. Set the. Set. Set rhymes to blaze. Set whistle top blicked tunes. Set them to your tooth’s frequency. Make them holace. Whorld worlds apart apartmentages ssssssssssss singking.
When the singking sinks, the life guard yells, “Oh no! He’s sinking!” The blind acrobatic beside him just shrugs, “We know.” I make a stupid joke. Oh no. Oh no! He’s sinking! It’s actually really sad. Wash your eyes. Wash your face. Ugly pustules bustle for my real estate underhanding money like shark dons on a trip to New-Wears Vegas. One on my left nostril’s parenthetical visual area. Lobing druffit cloves in gusts. Wanding ssss magnet smokes. This, too. Perhaps. But it leaves. It leaves and it leaves me, too. Right there in the room watching blank ruff. Coarse fur of a monster the floor. Sad cadric lidges. Smiling awfully. How do you frown as well as you smile? I mean, the reverse of that. (Reverse that.) I mean, when I was tripping that one time and found I had never actually smiled before or perhaps like more accurately maybe—maybe I had never really been happy before. Because the smile on my face, though nearly insane, was the truest I had ever seen it. And maybe it’s true the I’m late..