Words on white.
Disembodied white voices of dialogue quote thrown in. “Would we be alive?” Some idea some quote. Let me tell you about this, that other thing and stark gray paleness at seaside with palefaced horse and weathered home.

Phone call to dark room with tiny orange lights candles fire moving a leg. Losing virginity all over again, giving up hope, feeling bad and confused and embarrassed. Reading up on you, reading the clear vibe on cheeks of face. Turned down into book half here, half there, talking about two things at the same time, alternating sentences. Throwing words out up into the air and pushing them far away. Entering enticing ring, climbing the stairs of white boat with plastic George Lucas man, square features with ”babes.” Plastic everything melting in the sun, wearing heavy metal badges and awards that make the shirt heavy and sag in photo with grandma. Solemn weirdness with hard sun casting strong shadows. Lawnchair blinks in eye of video as eyes close and eyelash pet flutter softness of feeling gentle delicate – this hot need for release from freedom – granted, as I lay dead in the grass, ruby-eyed skull around my neck as giant St. Bernard happily rips open my warm body.

Surrounded by brown leather seats and yellow colors and boxes of mass packaged things, Dad and Mom upstairs. Hands gently on thin curved back as something wells up. One of those times when you know what you could do, only because you can’t do it. And you know limits, but energy persists in spite of all rules and inconsiderations. What do I become when I realize what the truth feels like?

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