.

Then I gobbled medicines and headed out into the world.

I created a fantasy universe and sent myself into it.
I was all of the lost generations in one, superfueled turbo charger.
Upside down in a fantasmagoria created out of toxins from plants
that I found out about at the library.
It was pretty damm good.

Now I am a man I have regathered unto myself my chilish things.
I read Conan and Dune, and listen to Iron Madien.
I hike through the bush and shoot animals and eat their flesh.
I write twiststed prose alone in my room by candlelight in the darkness.
I create fantasy universes and sent my friends into them.

One thing never changed.
I was always a Satanist.

And the bookstore is a place that could be anywhere. You walk in and away from the fact that reality is concrete and this matrix is real and you are a node. The city is a source of guilt and confusion; a bacchanalia of beautiful bodies to betray belief in books and all bets are off. What began as nausea, then anxiety, then dread, would finally liberate her. She picks up the closest thing and read the end of the story before she started it – because who’d want to be so easily disappointed? If only she could have, she’d have lived her life backwards, moving unexpectedly into the present from a future which was secure because she’d been there.