Sometimes, we stand in the shadow of creativity, scared to step out and move independently to find our own self, and be the expression we wish. And in this delicate flower of blooming bridal dresses, angst ridden with the noise of industrial pollution, we sift through our own drifting unknowing. When will we evaporate?

Maybe now?

And so I asked them, as they stood at the corner, French and stereotypical with curled, pencil-thin moustaches adorning thin slug like pursed lips: “what’s the theory of life? As meaning is no real conviction, would you offer yourselves to conjecture?” And they scoffed and dispersed without answering and I expected some flirting with my complexity, yet in obvious, contrived ways.

But instead the gleaming silver of a bullet flew past my eyebrows and coaxed a spiked pain in my left eye. A migraine, I thought, but no! Ocular occurrences followed so I followed them to see where they went and to see where they came from.

Through alleys and systems and tunnels I ran, igniting the whores and junkies and caricatures of Burroughs decorating every vile surface. And then there I was.

Back where I began.




Agitated and annoyed at my own refusal to let go.

And so I loaded the bullet again – and aimed square at the circle of my imagination.

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