" . . .got a little crust in my third eye."

(video: William Gibson on writing)

Realizing there aren't 5 people that I don't miss waiting out here in the desert. Like I could carve homunuclus out of hunks of plastic blanched in the sun. And this one has your tattoos, and this one has your scoliosis, this your orange hair, this your sewer's hands, this your piercings, this your meteorite eyes marbled by the heat of their descent. And yes I left. And I'll leave a million times and know a million saints that will bless my path in exchange for whatever discomfort I can provide.

Went to Ohio and communed with one of those above. Drank in a hole where the benches crumble under the intoxication and they'll serve anything as long as it might kill you. And wandered in humidity, me with untold sideways glances. And then a party in a far-flung field that caught me by surprise. Fresh air and fast friends and stories I have nothing with which to contend in the subtle light of citronella candles. And I could have gone on listening and occasionally saying something long into the next day ...which happened and passed quickly no matter how hard I tried.


Hide a secret in the center of a brick hewn from the earth by no hands. I've contributed to the wealth of no man. While my father sleeps I steal anything I can. Kisses from the least of beings, glances that peel everything, and the ammunition that sings my escape plan. There is no evidence, 've interred my whole life in that plaintive land.