"i know what the universe looks like"

he says.

i do too. [dominating the narrative] it's black and crystal and rainbows. a grid, old tv static. pixelated. abstract. and flame blue.

i know what it feels like too. it's the feeling of a warm lick. it's lava rock sticky, gritty, english muffiny. it's our skin touching, soft grass. it's freezing. it's a bullet entering the skin. the slice of a knife, the snap of bone, water rushing over rock, bubbles popping out of a hot spring. it is a tickle.

bodies. insects. lizard skin. music.

it's grief without trying to get away from it. it's reverb. holy shit. endless boredom. shivering. sweat. whisper. the sound of moths' wings and of stone.

yeah so i did see the old man at 8am on a mostly empty street with a razor blade scraping - what is that other other word for unnecessary? - superfluous?* muck off the street poles, as if his civic duty or one remaining purpose. first amusement, then existential funk.

but what i really want to emphasize is, this bullshit has gone too far. power yields only when there is demand. and in the spirit of change, it's all so fkg crazy amazing.

*punctuation. vision. maple fucking syrup.