Small moments glitter across my vision like some sort of kooky ticker-tape parade where all the players on the floats are bashing tin cans with toothpicks. Try to catch one, and feel the experience bleed down my throat like bittersweet sexy salty gummy chemical goo. You don't want to hinder the passage of time by grabbing it with both hands and fucking it, but that's what you do, just attempting to gather up these disconnected quanta into some sort of cohesive system. Fuck systems. I'm enjoying this far too much. Someone is storming out in anger in the apartment above me, what a shitty cliche, but cliches make life easier. At least for me, the perennial lazyfuck. Time travel, without the help of Wells or Asimov or some shitty Van Damme movie. Duke's seeing bats, but I dont get it, "never turn your back on a drug". Shit, I can't even deal with them up close, face to face, one inch punch, spittle in the eyes, "You. Me. Carpark. Now." distance.
...
Shivers pulse back and forth, shockwaves running around my skin from an overly intense lover's hands, all candlewax hot and Lord Kelvin cold. Jesus, calm the fuck down, put your tongue back in your mouth. You're seeing fireflies, I'm seeing phonesex ads with Madame Tussaud's bodies and styrofoam heads, who would want to enter these women? I want hair that curls around my fingers and messes up and gets all sweaty wet and sticks to your forehead and gets in my mouth and pisses me off. I need a smoke, and the gum now tastes of you, and you run down my throat like bittersweet sexy salty biochemical goo. I can't handle you now, not up close and face to face. I need technologically mediated interaction, tele-dildonics will do, but I cant see you like this, feel you like this.
...
A billion year cigarette burns too quickly, and you come pester me like a stray electron fucking with a heavy element. Fuck off and decay already, can't you see I'm happy with my current entanglement with this bittersweet sexy salty hot tobacco breezing down my throat? This was a bad idea, I need to get back to interstellar space, where interactions are few and far between and I can smell the gravity.
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My ass is cold and melting into the concrete, numb and alert together, playing pool with planets, dodging imaginary bullets and maneuvering the inertial mass of the cigarette to my mouth. Why can't it always be like this? Tingling, rocking with every neuron pumping out a baseline bitter-sweeter than any speaker could produce. The sound is rising and setting, I'm alone on some journey, and I didn't even know I had gone.
Your fireflies are bugs in my eyes at a hundred miles an hour, and I left my helmet in my other pants.
...
Those moments are popping in and out slower now, apeing some temporal-chronological whack-a-mole that's running out of juice. And me with no hammer. Normality is approaching, and its dooming me to the bitter and salty aftertaste that I've been ignoring. I'm heading for carbon-iron supernovae, cliches and chocolate, pillows and hair, disappointment and abandonment, sweaty salty bittersweet sex.