I must have prayed for something over ten years that someone would watch The Great Piggy Bank Robbery with me (Neon Noodle! P-P-Pumpkin Puss!), that the same person would cock their head to hear the smashed gibberish that pours out of me and these opinions. That I could pick through their bins of stories and sore spots, or that, with telekinesis, underpants would be torn from their body! That's some goddamn witchcraft! And you read?
The falling propinquity gets to be a hurtful little string that gets plucked by anything. What was once a speeding car, driving past those receding bastard totems that would jump out and beat me stupid, were we not driving. We are not driving.
Life has turned into a scramble, like a little mouse does and the cats, clumsily charging, will be outwitted and I have no idea what they are, but they are pissed and huge and mean to eat me. But more of the same should not be harried and confused with impoverished, brothers and sisters. When at the bottom of someone's sight, just fly over them--the summation of this life being glory and no less. Little shreds that remain well-tended in place are the best ones preserved. I am now coming through louder, and of what has left, I am wearing what I was taught like a drooping coat crusted with badges that are names.
