I sit alone.
I taste the bitterness
of my tongue
and somehow
life is more bitter
than this stale breath;
more empty than my cold bed
less comfortable, than my bleeding heart
more drowning, than nonsense
and less appetizing
than my own
rotten
mind.

Now I sit in two.
I whisper to my friend,
or,
what he desires to be called...
I tell him:
I wonder if there is
a primitive man
somewhere
in another world
absent
of the
vainglory
of future man.
Primitive man sits, nursing a wound
He stares into the night sky
and dreams of my life
he hopes his wound would be
as superficial as mine.
He imagines the weight of my wounds
as mere foundations for greatness.

All the while...
I dream of him

My friend chuckles.

I say:
Imagine how I see him.
Imagine his mind absent of media,
as if the universe
cured him of some life-threatening wound.
I tell my friend:
He was made perfect, you know.
I tell my friend:
That man could cure the world if you gave him a chance.
He would be a god.

My friend gives me a sideways glance.

What?

He offers a gesture of non-confrontation.
I relax. I sigh. I simmer in my somberness.

Imagine him! I declare.
The things he could accomplish in my life and me in his!

My eyes glaze over.
Instead of a deer, I'm an insect.
Instead of a car, it's a train.
Instead of headlights, it's the sun.
I'm not frozen, I'm petrified.
Because:
maybe, at the end of the day, he and I are the same.

That primitive man.
He would bumble around society. He would be consumed by the media before having the answers. It would devour his perfection. In the wake of its *******, the carcass of his potential mastery would be a mere ornament in the media's MTV mansion.

And I, society's specimen of advancement and culture?
I would be devoured by that primitive man's natural world. I would be reduced to moaning and wailing, crawling like a stuck pig, hoping to find a highway, all in vain. Why don't I just lay there and die?
And that nature? It wouldn't leave a carcass. It's too efficient. It's too...
Monstrous.

The primitive man. He's the god of his world.
While I. I can dream of being a god, if that helps.

But will the void mumble.
Will it turn in its sleep?
Will the god, in some slumber, whether dream or nightmare, ever
ever
dream
of being me?

Well.
Then it's in for
a rude awakening...
so to speak.