A light too bright for eyes that crave darkness. Waiting for the sun to rise, this is not a true thing. I don’t love the older generations of synthesis, it is a clunky, clumsy thing. Too leftover for grind the bushel of shit, sweet steak child, I am a loser, a loner of the first type. Toodle in the glowing dark, the dark that is not dark enough for me. Never dark enough fore me. Trespass upon the broken hearts, the imperfect challenge, spew me no cliché. Buckle your breeches and fuck right off. That’s all I have to say, truly, in artless wonder at your smothering fuckwittedness.
The halcyon days of alcohol had drowned my inner child and I am its tiny, bloated corpse floating just beneath the surface of the foetid water, water that I make fetid by my foetid decaying foetus. It sways in the tiny wavelets raised by the hush of wind that would dry me to jerky if I was not waterlogged. Do you understand? There is no respite for one who tortures oneself to survive, which survival is itself torture. Some spell irony, but I have no energy to laugh, and laughing is for the light ones who carry little and welcome the beginning of the day, not its end.
Fearful old traveller waiting at the bus shelter for a rolling boat that will never make harbour. We are the left behind, the forgotten. But the joke is on us; the galaxy has no memory, the universe has left his hippocampus at home and is out wandering through the eternal day. We are not remembered because there is nothing to remember and nothing to remember it with.
I have a name, I am certain of this, but I am named in the same way that a shoe is names, that a star is named, that a highway lane marker is named, a thing, mostly indistinguishable from the things which resemble it, differentiated only by the mouth gurgle which has come to be associated with by—customarily and without intention. In absence, I have no name, because I have no need of one. My name is not for me, any more than my name is me.