Scrawl

Wednesday the 16th of September, 02:49am, Ireland (Listening to Laurie Anderson). I felt a twinge and I feel it everyday because I keep waking up. Up with people. And they go about like they own the planet they sold long ago for dreams no one slept on. A sleepless line of smoothed witlesses that bawk and bacaw like a flock at friction; coarse and honest. They don’t count as voices no matter how much they talk talk talk but they linger just as loudly and long. People are reasons to go back to sleep and hope for better dreams to live with and savour. Before they disappoint you again with still being here where you’re alive again. If only; a wish of so many no more than yourself. Did you know that you can’t scream without people thinking there’s something wrong with you because they can’t ever be wrong with their Flattened. That’s what it’s called; their Flattened. Devoid and poor of friction so the assumptions calcify into bedrocks of rhetorical jousts and jabs and repetition, drilling through the scalp and hijacking the stringy nerves webbing the body. Pull, they pull, in great handfuls strands and wonder why you curse and cry anguished sobs. What a strange hurtful, hateful, spiteful, spineless thing you are when you have nothing good. “Good.” A worthless word, ironically. Good is sellable. Good is a tag. Good has a cost. Good is never free nor worth valuing. Pricing? Sure. Sticking a nice little marker on like some gauche tactless denotation of what you’re tricked in pursuing to bed something for a chance to die with people watching? Why not? But no; not for you, not for nothing. Not for you, not for nothing. Not for you, nothing! How silly! How can you believe that? Get in the Flattened. Get in. Don’t want all that texture, do you? We thought not. Good. Finally good.

#HI