feverish pigments, on a darkened night. and the gooeyness of a silly putty mind. the directions are clear, but the feet are stumbling towards them, taking long ways and short ways and zigzagging through everything shiny. mucking up the easy stuff too make it a little harder, but i don't think the object of this is to make it harder, or to get out of it. alive? are we. running to and away within the same moment and the constant tug of war that is building on the membrane, wobbling the knees, and kicking the heart. butterflies injected with heroin, because we aren't sure who's the junkie. what's the junk. the thrill of nothing and the nothing of the thrill. the upside and sideways side, the point of view, and lasting flavour, bubble gum? the chipping at it. the ins and outs of it. the curiosity. are you, curious? the the threaten of the death that comes with it.. do you want it, indulge in it. do you mind, if i ask you a couple of questions and a few more. and i might never stop asking. i'm going to die, i've figured that much out.
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