the return! to dreamworld
most of the time i love my dreams, but reading my half-awake handwriting is quite uncomfortable - i can still feel the heart beating between my molars:
an important man in a white tuxedo is reviewing flashcards before heading to a banquet. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen" he repeats in tones high, low... he is pacing back and forth, head swiveling towards the mirror as he passes. he stops and runs to the glass, two hands on his cheek. "Shit! Shit. Shit!" he repeats again. "shitshitshitshit" he pulls a razor out from the cabinet and starts working furiously on the edge of his face. blood stains his right shoulder, lapel, collar, dripping on the marble sink and brass fixtures "good evening, ladies and gentlemen." his blood wicks up his trousers, his feet are slipping - he rips the sleeve halfway off his jacket - he bolts out of the door and hops on his motorcycle - he tears out of his gate onto his well-paved road, rural fences and hedges 10 minutes from manhattan, devilish grin on his face, eyes lit up from inside. pulling to the right he leaps off his bike going 30 miles per hour, tumbling to a stop in the middle of the road. a black SUV, probably an escalade? drives by, stops next to him. a gloved hand reaches out and drops a dog biscuit onto his stained coat. the car begins circling his still breathing body, the glove produces more bones - one, two, three times, more, treats covering the guy. it rights itself and drives off. dust rises slowly from the body, forgetting about gravity. "good evening, ladies and gentlemen"
in other news, ian got eaten by flourescent orange mountain lions, i fell in love four times, and squatted a pier for the majority of my life. imagine the genius, using duct tape to guard your hummer from land mines.
an important man in a white tuxedo is reviewing flashcards before heading to a banquet. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen" he repeats in tones high, low... he is pacing back and forth, head swiveling towards the mirror as he passes. he stops and runs to the glass, two hands on his cheek. "Shit! Shit. Shit!" he repeats again. "shitshitshitshit" he pulls a razor out from the cabinet and starts working furiously on the edge of his face. blood stains his right shoulder, lapel, collar, dripping on the marble sink and brass fixtures "good evening, ladies and gentlemen." his blood wicks up his trousers, his feet are slipping - he rips the sleeve halfway off his jacket - he bolts out of the door and hops on his motorcycle - he tears out of his gate onto his well-paved road, rural fences and hedges 10 minutes from manhattan, devilish grin on his face, eyes lit up from inside. pulling to the right he leaps off his bike going 30 miles per hour, tumbling to a stop in the middle of the road. a black SUV, probably an escalade? drives by, stops next to him. a gloved hand reaches out and drops a dog biscuit onto his stained coat. the car begins circling his still breathing body, the glove produces more bones - one, two, three times, more, treats covering the guy. it rights itself and drives off. dust rises slowly from the body, forgetting about gravity. "good evening, ladies and gentlemen"
in other news, ian got eaten by flourescent orange mountain lions, i fell in love four times, and squatted a pier for the majority of my life. imagine the genius, using duct tape to guard your hummer from land mines.