Building / SILENCE (redux)

Building fictions is an addiction not easily quenched. A need, psychological and physiological that renders one a hamster inside the wheel—no stopping until you’re ejected into the corner where all the soggy piss-chips accrue. Bring pleasant talk of men and women disrobing into their pustules and scales. I have needs carbuncular and crepuscular toward the end of the day. Fill me with honey black, induce the truce of Medusa, ‘cause I want to turn quartzite and brilliantine (a little dab might fuse you!). Chuff and huff until I’m diamond sharp and lenticular, see through me the shards that elude your third eye. I went cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs in my ninth year on this melting and acidifying death orb—endless amounts of psychobabble and psychotropics didn’t make a lick of difference. So salivate and join me while I play the soundtrack of my life for you: hiss, crackle, pop, skronk, white noise, metal machine whir, cacophonic bursts… SILENCE

What I’m Reading:

“When the tyrant’s voice comes on the car radio, I close my eyes in an effort to slow the rate at which hopelessness enters me. With this act, I hurl myself faster toward extinction.”

— Fanny Choi / “Time-Sensitive”