Wednesday, March 2

doing it in the missionary position... the interlude

broken dreams... beautiful geometries dancing somewhere between my cornea and my eyelids... somehow both extruded into three-dimensions and yet permanently evanescent... memories, shuddering into place, then fading like those tessellations... a toy robot i lost as a child... a simple friendly giant who once helped me cross the street... an insect collection burned away in a fire... the wonder of making eye-contact with a chimpanzee at the zoo for the first time... a rotting sponge under the sink where i used to play... a trip to the shore and an encounter with a tiny octopus... cold white winters in some northern waste and the curious moose who nibbled the fruits straight from my hand... a backyard shack, with broken dusty windows, old rusting gear and long-abandoned spider webs... a safe place, away from the constant fear and suspicion of adults... the geometries grow harsher now.... they have edges... they have teeth and fangs... shouting... always shouting... always cruel... always judging harshly whining insulting  evil spiteful dangerous...  the other children, always mocking, always mean, always avoiding... the geometries grow weirder... nastier, somehow... colors that should never do so join forces... no rubbing of the eyes makes them change... they are all encompassing... they take over the robot, the octopus, the sponge, the giant... the colors grow and intensify and intensify and grow until there is nothing left but blackness, sprinkled with a few dots far away... and a giant gleaming brilliant beautiful polyhedron made of mercury, spinning and floating in the void...

then i woke up to some old woman pissing in my face... 

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