I have to put in, with spoon sugar.
Demotition, I destroy myself, to not feel the needles stuck into me and monitored for a reaction -- one that has to be right. It is better than feeling the hurt. I will admit to the hurt.
Control equals a good show. Streets are paved in hot weather, it melts after the job is done. It has to.
The right things are calm things, different things are violent things. The violent things are bad. Calm things are good. Calm things are control. Keep the piss inside and never let it out. That is control. You must do it in order to lie properly. Castrate the eyes and the other senses as well. Listen to the faces. Don't notice the borders around their bodies.
Massive normality obsession.
Weak poor souls, junctions without forks in the road; the skin so frail, expressing virtually nothing. The septre is not given to these trapping faces. They preclude themselves. Film. Film. Millimeter mutations show why nobody should be surrounded in anything that looks the part, like something out of life. A funny feather leash is made by craftsmen -- pros at their trade, big money dealers able to do the job well. It gets knocked over, the projection screen rips through a chair. The movie keeps playing on the back wall.
The brush is so hollywood. A bungalow gets beat up, the lead character slowly dies with the bead of a tear rolling down his face, on cue. Perfect ending. Heart wrenching. I went home wondering why I wanted to laugh. Death is funny. It is the best thing that could happen to a face. Yet they feel grievance over it. I have to confess, I feel that way occasionally.
It depends on who it is.
I guess I don't like the idea -- someone whom I have loved and touched, the idea that now they cannot be loved and touched anymore. The flesh, that which I loved, is in the ground to rot, turn black. I cannot bear to think of a love of mine in that way. Their soul survives -- so what? I have never loved anyone's soul.
RIVER BED 82
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