Surfacing at a hundred miles an hour? Cold chills because you are so ugly and so contrived: most of all because you are me.
(It's a simple story. An eerie sense of deja-vu sets in after my crocodile tears have dried on my face. Blubbering through my shivratri madness I squeal like a skewered pig: it's me I'm telling you it's me- so ugly and so ugly.)
A rat almost runs into me, I squeal and jump onto the sidewalk, coming home coming home, and yet I'm not home, not yet . Why is the city so blank? It might be the full moon, the cloudy sky. I look for the clear, blank desert sky. (But why is it so tough to love in the desert?) I'm eternally dwarfed by the giants of yesterday- and there are so many, so varied in their horrifying perfection. The many headed Loch Ness monster surfaced, and I fed it my sword.
Yes.
Glorious self indulgent mellon-collies, and little brown love-sparrows.
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