Creepy calm & safe in the suburbs, every house dark and every light bright, big trees and loud cicadas, willow watering the sidewalk, everyone watering the lawn after dark and growing mold between blades.
Road striping coming right up, the view uphill from the silent center lines at four AM. Nothing here even saw Nixon; nothing even needs to now. There is second-growth prairie and fake lake at the end of the street; there is folklore on TV, immigrant scrap-pickers coming for your old machines, the sole stratum of the parking lots, grown men who've never been to the library, fast food head-quarter-pounds and drive up to the window, please.
I read the book in two days and this feels like it will take significantly longer every time I start again. It gets me so glazey and I get guilty and wonder how I'll say anything later when I can barely see now.
Creepy calm & insane, I'll track my hours alone and check mark through the day. Try as I might it's in my life and all kinds of shit crawls between your covers.
Starless and irrational is too soon to sleep, but I dreamt I was brought into confidence and led a whole legion after me. We looked within confidential files, the hall of history, of manipulative marketing and internet dark matter, and I laid in my strings so carefully that, at the first tug, I ran all the way out between the wall and its discoverers. I dreamt on: sophisticated survey techniques, grotesque fetuses or the archaic disgusting destiny, and be grateful you live in a modern age, at least.
She was recruiting me to critique radio as a visual medium, reading me her reasons in a false gesture of disinterest. The sound hit me like the extinguished blackscreen and overthrew the mind's eye, knocked me out until I was looking in on myself living her life. As she's holding the book the text is shrinking, and as she leans it blows up in her face.