Hello sticky-soft and windy work, floating above a box and swimming inside of it. Seated in the locks of syrup, and hurry-ups, that no-doubt look down or not at all. If the page is not yellow, but instead a plastic reader with a particular code, Then I make a false move and shake my mind’s head, smiling like an idiot. Goodbye as the golden gun draws its heat down and prepares for bed. Not towards me, but it needs to be. For to find morning will absolutely be it.
In the AllAlone state, one must strain and entertain and play tricks. Putting on a blind-fold and drawing bigger and bigger circles to satisfy the Togetherness Gene. Here’s video candy for our eyes to suck on momentarily, and later spit out with coated tongues. There’s another musty bill pressed into my hand and a slip of chemical ink, torn just for you. Another unsettling realization: That we are frustrated in loving you and you and you, so hard. A Soft Love would settle our stomach, but no one wants to share with a toe-dipper, And no toe-dipper deserves to share when they’re already married to imbalance and anxiety.
What is the self if one is morally empty when full of it? It is another illusion, which people still enjoying receiving, but can never be taken home. What is a question worth when every answer falls equal in the Void? And how much longer do I have to stay here?