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Feb 27
a palette of nightmares that you can paint a conversation with;
"space" containing space, space without oxygen; breathing room
that asphyxiates you; memory as crazy glue: adhesive, by nature,
only once too late, holding us together once we no longer do;
a ghost making a haunt of your mind, haunting you all the time;
ghost writing: new lines from the old you, delivered over seemingly
insignificant moments by my subconscious; wordplay as gunplay,

a videography of bullet points; the 14 million bits of information
per second conveying something only peripherally--our conscious'
bandwidth too narrow to grasp or censor--that becomes a "trigger"
once summoned by a scent, scene or spate of spatial recognition;
maybe, if you wake up with your bed on a different side of the room,
you will not remember; if you close the blinds; if the light stops
throwing itself like shade; if, like Marcel Proust, you never eat

a madeleine again. a weatherman beforecasting weather that was
inside you; a long thunderstorm that lightninged your rubber heart;
a windchill possible, only because you were blowing it; fresh air
that, like radio, "got you to work"; until, like radio, it went silent:

dead air. weather that bumps into you in braille; waiting, apparently,
for the day that you can feel again. Numbness deep-seated at
the wheel, "getting you to work"; emotions translated as anxiety,
as if the one word in a foreign language we know; and we, travelers
too blithe to learn. a taxidermied head of your worst future self

hanging on your wall, like a Talking Bass, powered by self-defeat:
so you can at least (or at last) defeat yourself; an obscenity of
similarities between us all; and we, nonetheless, **** each other.

"i should warn you that you may **** me;
but chances are, i'm gonna ******* over". - marliyn manson
Written by
stylesclash  28/M/USA
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