Strangely Attracted to a Lack of Sense

I’m feeling strangely attracted to the can of vicious motor oil in the corner. I could have said “viscous” but I’ve just come from the cornershop thrumming in a pink and light blue aura of sexiness, one that is ineffable in these turbulent times. Anarchic times for desolate people—times for rows and perturbations. Give me some kind of sign. It doesn’t have to be a walking on the waiter kinda’ sign or a multiplication of leaves and frog’s legs sign, but let it have that old-timey censer mysteriousness about it. It’s driving me crazy all the swinging censers that way, and what is that censorious smell? Is it frankincense? Why so critical? Why so blue? Gas prices gotcha’ down?

What I’m Reading:

You don’t tear the ocean like fabric or leave an imprint as you would in sand or snow. Plunging in, you condemn yourself to invisibility.

— Mariette Navarro / Ultramarine