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Tuesday, October 07, 2003

Your idea of hell can’t elaborate the half shudders sticking to the back of my eyelids, down my spine. Wake up and the walls don’t matter. Have legs, but no where to walk. No idea of joy in transience; no satisfaction in stillness. Hung like sad gelatinous fruit in the time time’s presented.

I get paint and rain the lawn. I hack an axe into graceful strumming. I type more often than you cum. And faster. I believe in the weather. I’ve been to the tatamount. Salt in hotel rooms. Starlight that matters.

I live to get you off. I live off the entirety of passion. In believe in it enough to tell you don’t have it. But I don’t have it your way either. I have it in a box, over radiowaves, on paper. I miss movie theaters the way you miss shoe sales.

But a shiver serves us all. Isn’t that the main thing? Shivering? What matters beyond ecstasy? What matters less than heaven? There is an exacting feeling we all share. I believe in this. I exist for that fleeting fraction. I am blind, and dumb the rest.

Lately, I have been the latter. Lately, the thick inevitability of the following moments slows me to a slow foggy crawl. Timothy and I circle old neighborhoods like sympathetic junkie ex-policemen. Our intensions are golden, but our eyes are a different story. Our words are different.

There’s three walking slow, in ridiculous jeans and jazz walks, even though they know nothing about jazz.

“Damn.” Tim takes a breath and lets off the gas. Our necks do things from exorcist movies.

Tim slips me a little pipe under the dashboard. I roll up the window a bit and light it up. My skin crawls a little, and then dies. Then all my insides crawl. Then something less than Technicolor, but slightly more than old film falls over the field on my left. The shit’s hit me. And it’s good.

I take a deep breath and convince myself things are fantastic.

Back at the house we grow legs and swim through the yard, past a pair of deranged lobsters, and into the indoor womb television heaven where Tim discusses the repercussions of a recent affair, and the girl that he persuaded away.

“I can’t really trust her now, can I? Not the way I got her.”

“Do you want to?”

“I think so…”

“Than isn’t that everything?” I’m a fan of movement. If I can feel it, I swear I’ll turn to stone, or other something otherwise dead and immobile. I believe in distractions almost as much as I want transcendence.

“Fuck.” Tim’s head turns into a blurred echo. The muscle in his right arm twitches in strange, uneven polyrhythms.

I close my eyes and enjoy the mathematically oceanic blue-green light.

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