Dear Office of Nightlife, Cabaret Unit: the demi-monde is breaking bottles over their heads, and crushing guitars and gristle underfoot, what a racket!
For over a month now she has woken to a refrain, Bush Lied. People Died. She thinks these words as she brushes her teeth. As she boils water for coffee. As she lace her shoes. As she lock the door behind her.
D. said, “My need for people exceeds my ability to deal with them.”
Each thought the other one unreasonable, bordering on insane. Occasionally, she would dart across the zone into his madness and tentatively circle the conclusion that perhaps she was the one who was crazy. But in order to keep possession of her own mind, it was necessary to scurry back, squat to reestablish residency.
Fruit and cigarettes are too expensive in this town.
At the optometrist, she is asked to peer through a massive bi-focaled contraption, read the letters she sees, and say which one is clearer, lens one or lens two. She leans forward: the letters spell out: d e m o n.
You are driven to a remote wooded area and left alone with nothing but a knapsack, a pocket knife and a rabbit. Do you eat the rabbit to survive, or do you keep it alive for companionship? Did you have the intention of skinning the rabbit for a hat, but start calling it Buddy, ruining your well-laid plans?
Two years ago I was like a brand new person.
Talking to her was like filing a Freedom of Information Act and getting the document back from the government with black hedges of censorship around the words “the,” “you,” “then,” “if.”
He had managed to scoop the long loops of his intestines into a large mixing bowl when a dog caught a corner and began unraveling his hard work.
Yes there are still dragons and rich people are eating the black market meat in private.
Faded album titles on the spines of old LPs. Went something like this.
