"what's wrong, daddy?"
Feeling mortal at your side. Feeling abstruse, renewed, wearing the same sweater as you, doing the same things thinking of the small stone in your brain, the absent way you'd sing "Video Games". All these tallboys lined up within frame. I'm leaning out of the high rise, saying your altitudinous name. Seeing the black sky turn itself grey again. Scratching, aren't you, foil wrapper in your fist. Troubling, transmitted, eating the cacao beans whole at the top of the mountain. Where would you go if it wasn't here again, what would you do if it wasn't me, excitable. What would we say to each other if we weren't here in the horrifying data stream, laughing with our pupils closed like fists. Alone in wide america, in the resonant desert, in the straight-road triple-six of motel tomorrow standing in your underwear drinking coffee from a mug. Everything dim & far away now. Everything a muffled way of saying something else. Drunkenly, you nuzzle the black palm fire of my hair. Hear the thousand histories of tomorrowland suddenly washed in it. We're awful, unaccountable, drinking cans of Yanjing on the graves of all the immigrants who came before us. You cooked a meal you read about in a novel once; you linked a fatal strangeness in yourself to me. We began in a city that was all chilly mystery; unsure of what our story was and what it was going to be.