(no subject)

The sorcerors hat. Oceans of skeletons writhing in a dimly lit Victorian showroom to the group of musicians clad in black. Primitive instruments: Bone bass, standup. Ribcage organ. Skull drums with stretched bones fitted with dyed red animal hides. Red, white, and black upholstery. Scarlet velvet couch for a youthful pair of sceners. Everyone knew what the couches were for and seated themselves accordingly. Beautiful tapestries afforded by the post plague liberation and inheritance of abundant funding. The black death left many bereaved and many hastily left wills marking their eager inheritants. Speeding up and down the crowd becomes a frenzied mob of pale underexercised pundits.

The Clinic

My name is Nathan. I make a living by listening to people who have no one to talk to. It puzzles me that people confide in someone they don't know instead of talking to their friends or loved ones about their problems. I've always had this interest in analyzing people and sometimes I just sit in the park and observe them. I can create entire life stories for the people I observe simply based on their exterior.

My latest patient is quite a complex individual unlike most people who just need to sort out their angst. I generally try to find out as much as I can about the patient's parents, which is a great place to start as people are generally either just like their parents or just the opposite. She has never once talked about her father and I have never asked. She does however mention her mother with reasonable frequency. I believe that some, if not much, of her psychosis is a result of family problems. She strikes me as possibly being asexual.

One of my other new patients strikes me as the type who has no real problems and interprets this fact as tragic. He was clearly raised overly sensitive and was probably abused by the other children in his youth despite his obvious capacity for leadership. He refuses to allow me to keep an official file on him, which further convinces me that he is abnormally paranoid. I am legally required to inform a third party if the patient leads me to believe that they will hurt themselves or another person. None of my patients have ever led me to believe that they would do such things, but I am not easily convinced of anything. I only really care about my own safety and thus I keep a loaded pistol in my desk drawer.

What's The Password? Legalize television!

The three glittery jawas that live in the sink all yelled "mamamanoosh" simultaneously as I dropped in the buttery knife, thus signifying their unanimous greeting, approval, and lack of affectation. I just smiled back as the seemingly dull knife crushed and spread their internal organs to all ends of the chrome basin floor. It appeared to me as if in slow motion and suddenly it became morbidly clear that my hedonism had become militant.

"Why these are nothing more than the deranged ramblings of an eskimo foot soldier!", he chanted monosyllabically from the couch.

It's a good thing there's not a price on my head anymore. After I stole Abraham Lincoln's prosthetic bronze nose a bounty was issued by the 4th sector Mafiakuza. I could in no way see the connection I had unwittedly made with my petty larceny. All former presidents had been disowned by the New Collective Autocracy to which we unwillingly donated our prime numbered brain cells. The N.C.A. parent node is housed in the brain of a telephone psychic who previously deemed itself Evolved Media Hierophant. As you could well imagine, the N.C.A. and the E.M.H. didn't interface well. The first version of our government was called Nemc'ah and forced all it's citizens to rule themselves with an individually serialized and government subsidized iron fist. Despite all of the harshness we thus self imposed, gas prices really went down.


Let us not forget the proverb detailing the man who learned to speak by putting rocks in his mouth. I tried desperately to convey the wisdom of this tale to Pete, but he seemed perfectly content to simply watch the static on the muted television set.

"It kind of matches the music," he told me.

I suppose he was right in a perfectly strange way. That was the thing about Pete, he always made such delightfully astute observations. The ectoplasmic stench of the couch was getting to me and so I ventured toward the submissive arbiter of alchohol for renewal of my sedative. All that it needed to pay up was a good hand job, just like everybody else.

"Much safer than drinking corn syrup," he said as I got up.

Band Practice

So we're the kind of band that simply emits the cool vibes that all the proxima-yuppies desire to soothe their shattered nerves. We all play in a line except for the drummer of course who keeps her subliminal beat pounding so steady that most forget about their presence right out. We wear a matching uniform with a variable number of zippers depending on rank and length of service. We all have names that must never be spoken without a properly trained and hollowly perpetuated accent of the lower east sector. By that sector I of course mean the one that we frequent. We were raised in our respective pods with lovely sets of pod-parents. They were reputed to be all the more manageable and retained a master control over their interference levels perfectly counter balanced with their level of nurturing.

We ourselves, unlike the uberhip bands that disrupt the embryonic static flow so far removed from public access, were sympathetically linked to our target audience. They needed us just as much as we needed them; a beautiful apex of symbiosynthetic engineering. A brave time is now upon us. Raise your hands toward the heavens and grab for a piece of emancipation. The media as we know it is now dissolved into quasi-liberal myosis. Now we all have a share in the pixels beamed to us at 60 frames per unit. The dynamic expressed is no longer a shard of our core infrastructure but rather that of the negation of the crater left by the lack of its parts.

Band practice sucked today.

An eternity of need. The prehistory of desire.

We could break free but it would kill us in the end.

The dream. I am climbing the hill to meet them. The hill gets progressively steeper and harder to climb as I traverse it. They had to help me to the top. The surface area has decreased so much. I am filled with feelings of vertigo and yet something seems so familiar about the whole affair. An escape is imminent.

When I finally arrive the dreams become reality. Something very intoxicating about the whole place. Feeling more alive. He is old and his gums seem so red. He realizes the escape as much as I, perhaps more so. The reality hits suddenly and distinctly like a hornet hidden in a rotten apple core. Yesterday it was an administration of topical cream to relieve the disruption. Things are not so easy now. Disconnected. Melancholy. Lost but not without hope. It's only the first day after all.

I am immediately struck by her appearance. A rugged, natural beauty accentuated by beautifully decorated skin. She is immersed in a sketchbook and perched on a stone bench. Hair so curly and soft with a narcotic smile. I am enthralled. I would drown myself if only I mistook my reflection for hers. I lose focus on the past. The present is all that matters now.

Sitting at a table drinking my coffee. Very strong...inspiring. One is for paranoia. Two is for worry. Three is for nervousness. Who ever knew that I would encounter her again? Perhaps throughout the distance and passage of time she has become a manifestation of my desire. She was a dark muse that is for sure. The only person I blame is myself. I blame only myself for all the nights sprawled on the soft yet distinctly abrasive blue carpeting wishing for one second that I could forget.

"Yes. This is what I want. This is what I have always wanted." I can see the desperation in those eyes, but then I wake to nothing but a bed of empty nostalgia. When is it that I made the realization that they are all part of the same entity? Nothing but a multifaceted succubus to haunt my dreams and leave me cold. None of them take more than they give. Perception is the thing that haunts me. The truth is that I take everything for myself ritualistically perpetuating my hedonistic desire.

The most intense feelings of love and happiness emerge in dreams. The ethereal nature of the switched mode of consciousness is a perfect metaphor for the delicacy of life. What we grasp is nothing more than a manifested concept of what we think we need. Time has no meaning. Two weeks become a lifetime more easily than you would think. Tears are self-indulgent so don't cry for me. I am a saline vampire. I need the fluids within to survive. How can something so sweet taste so salty?

For love or for desire? : "Please. I want you to fuck me."
"How I wish I could. I am incapable of love. It will be easier this way."


Drugs are essential for our day to day living. Normal people need their vitamins and their various medications and likewise we need copious amounts of narcotics. Sometimes we just smoke and sit around utterly amused by any fucking thing on the television. I submit that television is a hard drug. It attacks our comprehension centers and addicts us on a most potent yet subliminal level. Soon we'll all be hooked in through our veins like some simian vivisect attached by sinew and aluminum wire to a cellular broadcast. Permanent visual stimulation laced with single frame advertisements.

We could watch home shopping networks for hours and revel in their metatextual mediocrity. A million things to enhance our lives resulting in a total lack of interest on our part. When we run out of things to keep ourselves adequately sedated then we are naturally forced to venture beyond the pizza box carpeting of our modest cubical dwelling and generally try to fuck shit up. However, when we get our hands on some of the time modulation powder then we leave our apartment with the energy to really do some damage to our surroundings.

Tonight we went to a party. Friend of a friend of an enemy kind of situation. You know, no real alliances and all the unclear motivation of a motley bunch of social fuckjobs. Pete was there kicking back on the couch with his unkempt and strangely motionless purple hair just kind of sinking in to the cushions staring at the wall. We called him "Captain" for no real reason. He sails the seas of indecision if you could call them that. He doesn't talk much. Joan was there. She has such a classic look. It's like she was born out of cinematic goo projected for eighty years or more. The savior of a nation and oh so sexual. I stood completely transfixed watching her taking long drags off a clove cigarette. Whenever I see her I want to ejaculate an ocean but she seems so damned inaccessable.