10th Floor
The apartment is big and am dedcidedly small but nonetheless rapacious, occupying it fully and thankful for the breathing room and tough grin of the territorial as that aforementioned breath fills capacious rooms and long corridors with my fragrant singularity. Becki knows the silliness of being, its final implausibility in the face of so many oppositional influences and our mutual negativity fills me with a dissimilar absence of expectation, it promotes the sort of nothingness that encourages both nothing and untenented possibility. I walk the dog timorously along Riverside Drive; all scruff, leather coat, pompodore, altarity. 'This is New York.' But I sometimes feel the carbon dioxide to their oxygen and experience a kinship with plant life that suggests the inevitability of Pennsylvania. Faulkner went home to write, to seclude himself so his unapologetic prose could erupt untarinshed and keep lonely he company -- like the alchemic pus that is my favored artistry. Words enunicate you, like clothes and as I walk and catch columns of pea-coats and khackis I know I should just reconcile myself to the prosaic sentence that dominates newsstands, libraries; no, words enunciate thy. I wear red and white pants with the shirt of a Crayola with an identity crisis over a mesh-y ripped up too long sweater-thing in pea green, when eyes attempt to put me together they cannot. I am beyond good reason, but --heres my secret -- purposefully.
In San Francisco, I finally escaped my consciousness and might have died. At the End-Up Club at noon on Sunday, I lived a waking dream in which I danced for love so hard I won near collapse and a blood blister on the sole of my foot. The object of my love was a lapsed homosexual who caved into the meal ticket of a foxy chick with a powerful daddy. I was committed to not making a scene, to exemplifing the specialness of my character through relentlessly expressive dancing. This was a drugged out delusion, ok?, the bi-product of my flight from consciousness & the implimentation of its next best thing: the ellipically cohesive ideology of the cinema, suturing the shambles of me. I have flashes of recollection that survived the chemical emulsion; I remember my passion greeting the necessity of its contention given the hostility to its character -- so, perahps not passion, but fury. Have you ever gotten away from yourself? Have you, really?
In San Francisco, I finally escaped my consciousness and might have died. At the End-Up Club at noon on Sunday, I lived a waking dream in which I danced for love so hard I won near collapse and a blood blister on the sole of my foot. The object of my love was a lapsed homosexual who caved into the meal ticket of a foxy chick with a powerful daddy. I was committed to not making a scene, to exemplifing the specialness of my character through relentlessly expressive dancing. This was a drugged out delusion, ok?, the bi-product of my flight from consciousness & the implimentation of its next best thing: the ellipically cohesive ideology of the cinema, suturing the shambles of me. I have flashes of recollection that survived the chemical emulsion; I remember my passion greeting the necessity of its contention given the hostility to its character -- so, perahps not passion, but fury. Have you ever gotten away from yourself? Have you, really?