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Taking your camera out of the drawer.

Mind. Blown.

Everyone says they have
changed
Wants to
change
Why doesn’t anyone
ever
want to be the same?

Bones,
sinking like stones,
All that we fought for,
Homes,
places we’ve grown
All of us are done for.

We went swimming in the black water. The stars reflecting from the surface into our eyes like crystals. The phosphorescence glittered. Every movement an explosion of light, as if we were raising the sun from it’s sleep.

I am cutting pieces of skin away from me, wondering which parts are you and which parts are me.

I want to be blind to learn to appreciate sight.
Deaf to appreciate noise.

End Product.

Let us descend into the blind world is scratched onto the bathroom wall in neat, black cursive. It is late, or early, and the cocaine someone gave you earlier has started to wear off and you are slowly aching. A dark shadow quickly passes and you turn but there is nothing there and your skin is covered in bumps and you have the urge to throw up.

Outside of the club seems colder than what it is. You look over at her and she has faint black lines down her cheeks where mascara tears have run. You think to yourself that you should say something. You think to yourself of all the somethings you should say and forget to say anything. Say nothing.

You drive south along the freeway and when you look into the rear-view mirror, your eyes meet the reflection of your own eyes and you shiver. They are slightly red and stand out from your tan and you contemplate whether you need a haircut. Your skin is covered in bumps again and you start to drive faster and for some reason, whatever reason, it is not the red eyes or the haircut or her mascara that you think about, it is black handwriting on the bathroom wall. Let us descend into the blind world.

For over a year you have been sleeping in her bed. On Valentines Day she gave you a rose carved out of chocolate, which you admittedly threw out. The inevitable break-up has circled so many times before that even when she calls to tell you to meet her, you can’t help but think that it is slightly manufactured. As you drive to the restaurant, you try to stay present, replay the happy mirage, the weekends spent up the coast, the cake she baked for you on your birthday, the scarf she knitted, when she let you fuck her in a phone box, the beginning slowly looping back to the end, to you standing there, to her crying, a cyclic sadness, a child dying, a tapeworm slowly feeding on itself.

The restaurant is cheap, run-down and empty and when you arrive you instantly feel that it is all a terrible mistake. You can see her through the glass and she is staring out into space with a confidence that makes you envious.

The waitress, a fat middle-aged woman with bad skin and an unfortunate face has her hair tied back clumsily and the laces of the runners she is wearing are noticeably stiff, as though they have never been untied. When you tell her that you are with the girl in the back booth, she simply stares.

You softly kiss her on the cheek and she smells faintly of vanilla. The fat waitress brings coffee and it is burnt but you drink it anyway. She orders a slice of lemon tart and you immediately feel sick and sad and sorry. A cold fire burns, seraphic, and suddenly illuminates the cafeteria and for a moment you can see yourself clearly. You remember the time you first made love to her, the white sheets almost instantly fading, turning transparent where the water hit from her hair, dissolving. You feel yourself coming undone, the knotted ropes of your sanity slowly unwinding. You want to cry. You want to crawl over the table and kiss her. You want to fuck her on the floor. You want to pour the burnt coffee through her hair and eat the lemon tart in her cunt and you want the fat waitress to watch and to like watching.

Have you ever loved me?

A bell cracks like rape and dully echoes.

You pretend you didn’t hear.

I said, have you ever loved me?

Don’t do this.

And she stares, empty, expressionless, the dark hair falling down into the eyes, a mess of broken poetry.

It’s a yes or no question. Like charades.

Seconds pass like lifetimes and everything slowly blurs, morphs into some hazy static that suddenly seems irrelevant and meaningless, as if the universe has contracted into something smaller and you have transcended.

When the No falls from your mouth it is atomic and unnoticed. Something sad touches your spine, a dull blade enters with a pain that you can’t exactly feel. You are suddenly very aware of your ribs, of how they hold your chest, and of how they suddenly seem lonely. You wonder what bone marrow tastes like, whether the world was a better place before they shot Lennon, and why people don’t admit they piss in pools. How much blood can you drink before you get sick and why aren’t all girls French and why can’t food be a pill that you take each morning.

At some point you say goodbye and leave, but you don’t remember paying and you don’t remember the road. The sun is high now and Kill City is awake and a bad Bob Dylan song, the only bad Bob Dylan song, is playing loudly.You reflect on the stretching asphalt, an electric maze connecting the suburbs of madness and void. The city suddenly appears to be empty and desolate and greasy and depressing. The cobble-stoned streets swarm with fruit flies and peyote-crazed killers seeking spare change in gutters. The angry nightmare is silent and the silence is deafening, back-thoughts quickly tripping over themselves. You reflect on poverty, on crime, on the body of the boy you knew in high school, quietly decomposing in the dirt under the white roses and it comes upon you, as if for the first time, that you are utterly alone. The dark reverie rings with something sad and yet strangely beautiful. You have arrived at the bottom of the ocean and wonder why you ever cared to swim.