ayla_napoli

The idea is to have a set of rotating images with words beneath them. The page will scroll horizontally in the middle. There will be definitions and more images to accompany the main one to refine the text that accompanies each primary image.

I have a list of personal requests, and I'm not sure how to attack the work left: "rocket scientist," "psychedelicatessen," "flavor," and "chicken." I'm pretty sure one of those will be first. I also would like one on "brooklyn," one on "cooper," one on "american football," and one on "blog."

Don't spill the beans, this is going to be tremendous.

My Pins

There are five pins on my desk. I keep them in this little black plastic tray underneath my monitor array. They are white, yellow, green, blue, and red. For about three months I only had the red, yellow, and blue ones. One day I turned around and realized that there was a green pin in the wall behind me. I took it out of the wall but something about the even number of pins upset me. I stood up and noticed a white pin in the synthetic cubicle cloth behind my monitor array. I took it out. That’s how I acquired the fifth pin and restored harmony.

Sometimes I pick them all up and turn the yellow and blue ones on their heads and then stick the green one in the space between them, resting its shoulders on the upside down shoulders of the two upside down pins. I like this configuration because of the color combination it implies. The bottom of the pin resting on the shoulders of the upside down pins does not touch the desk.

Sometimes I line up the blue, yellow, and red pins on their heads, and stick the green and white pins on top of them. This configuration is not as perfect, because yellow and red don’t make white, they make orange. I wish I had an orange pin.

Still, I’m happy now that I have five pins, you know? They’re my little buddies. They hang out in the little tray right in front of me, next to the book of stamps that only has two stamps left on it. If someone ever took my pins I’d be pretty upset, because some days, the only emotional interaction I engage in is between me and my pins.

I also have this little black clip thing. It came with my IP phone headset. It’s serial number is LR66181, but to be honest I didn’t even know it had a serial number until I started writing this. It has moderate-to-aggressive spring action and is about an inch long with the spring in the middle. There are three circular grooves in the clip part of the little black clip thing.

Sometimes I put the pins inside the little grooves on both sides and spin it around, holding one pin steady and rotating with the other. One day I put a pin into the top groove on one side of the clip and another pin on the other side of the same groove. You have to press a little harder but they actually both fit in the groove tunnel. The clip thing opens up a little in this case and you can’t really spin it.

I’m not really attached to the little black clip thing as much as I am to my five pins. They are my dudes, the little black clip thing is like an acquaintance. If someone walked by and said, “Hey do you have one of those little black clip things?” I’d probably get really excited and say, “Yeah, actually I do, here you go,” and hand them the little black clip thing. Then they’d probably just walk away with my the clip.

I’d turn around and wipe the fake smile off my face and grab my five pins and line up the yellow and blue ones upside down. I’d clear a little space for the green one and stick it between, “I can’t believe I gave that asshole my little black clip. I miss it.” I bet the person will never stick pins on both sides and spin it around. They’ll probably just use it to hold the wire of their headset and talk about servers and helping traders with their stupid spreadsheets.

Inflatable Ego!

Do you have flaccid self-regard? Do you suffer from self-underestimation? Oooohh! The pain! The agony of your hapless muscles. The routine of appearing indifferent to conversation. The monotony, loneliness, and relentlessly eroding downward spiral of self-deprecation. All that can end as soon as you finish reading this. With these three easy steps, you can banish insecurity directly to the core of your heart (where it thrives and never dies):

1) Above all...it's showtime, baby. You must remember this. When you enter a room, when you move along down the city sidewalks, when you play with little kids - it's showtime. Uh. Yeah. What. The lights go black, the crowd comes to its feet, the public address announcer clears his throat and says, "aaaand now..." There's a hot 20-something above the tunnel holding a sign that says, "TAKE ME HOME, {First Name}." People paid to see you tonight.

The place is rocking and you're still standing behind the security guards with the yellow jackets in the tunnel. You half-stretch your calves one by one, you give a little neck twist, maybe throw in a few hops. You're wearing a white headband, you take it off and chuck it to the side and think, "". Nothing. Nothing at all baby. The spotlight hits the tunnel entrance and casts a blinding light at your toes, "It's showtime, it showtime, it showtime," you whisper it.

The PA announcer belts out your name, "{FIRSTNAAAAME LASTNAAAAAAAAAAAAME}!!!" You hop a little, distributing the weight slightly onto your back foot (no one's that confident), and then you explode out the tunnel, spin around and show your face to your adoring fans as you high-five the trainer and the hot member of the support staff. You get to center stage, raise your hands above your head and say, (politely), "A buttered poppy-seed bagel, please" or "I finished that assignment you gave me" or "Happy Holidays Aunt Laurie." It's gotta be goin' through your head at all times, that scene, that's you, you're the star, it's showtime.

2) Because it's showtime, things go your way. When the subway arrives just as you descend the stairs, it's because of your aura. Your presence in the station literally adjusted the timetable and composition of the entire transit network. Cut ahead a few old folk (they won't even notice), maybe slap the top of the doorway like "yo wutup, I own this car," and go wedge between two comfortable groups of seated people and lean your ass all the way back. Yeah, who got the broad shoulders now! What.

When you're not sure if it's one of those vending machines that can take the bill both face sides up and you give it to it the face side that's less crinkled, and it takes it, that's cuz it's showtime baby! When you buy a bunch of stuff at the pharmacy and one of the items was actually half price and the math in your head was one dollar denomination too high...you know why. Baby it's cuz you're so good lookin' in the spotlight right now. Whoo!

3) You mad famous. You on top the world, baby. When people make eye contact, it mean one thing and one thing only, they are just dyin' to get with you. You see some old dude looking at some mad young chick and you cut in front of her, right in his way. He looks at you in the eyes: yeeeeah. Take a number gramps. Please. You walk past a coffee shop and startle some babe in the window because you're staring at her with your mouth open, she looks you right in the eyes: yeeeeah. Go round up a few mo'. What.

You stand on the elevator with reflective doors and everyone looks away as you stare at your reflection: yeeeeah. What now. The little bell rings but the doors don't open so almost everyone looks at the little blue number to see what up but as they realize you lookin' straight ahead they look into your eyes in the reflection: yeeeeah. "The'y a ho lotta lovin' 'go around, baby." Maybe give a little smirk. Nah. Nah. What now. Uh.

Now that you've read through the steps to achieving instant confidence, it's worth mentioning that before these foolproof guidelines become habitual (studies suggest habits take almost three weeks to solidify), you may need an easy way to remind yourself of the steps, here's how: once you get yourself all did in morning, take a last look in the mirror. Raise your dominant hand about 5 inches below your chin, extend your thumb and index finger, cupping the other three fingers, this should make a pistol-shaped figure with your hand. That little arrangement doesn't pack any punch and is for sissies.

Take your middle finger, extend it, and line it up just beneath your index finger. Now you got a hand cannon. Do you feel the difference? Try it a few times. Good. Anyway you want to look at yourself in the mirror, and fire the gun once. This should remind you of Step 1, when showtime begins. Next, blow out the top of the gun because it's all smoky. Then, put it in its holster at your side. This should remind you of Step 2 because it's cuz of your skill that the holster doesn't catch fire even though, because of you, it's so hot. Next, and this harkens back to Step 3, give yourself a last look and either wink with your dominant eye or give yourself a slight smootch. On days when you really need a big performance, you can do both, but baby... don't waste it.

Here At Home

[Ancestrally-privileged moguls] sometimes have these uncrinkled pieces of legal paper with manicured black characters drafted upon them, and from these West Indian (not East Asian) manuscripts, a showstopping food chain of sociopolitical implications expands – in to the inner-city, out to the shore (the ’burbs), in to the classrooms, out to the playgrounds, in ivory doors, out closets, in hearts out of iron. The networking is just splendid and the chicken is almost always prepared to perfection, their rooms are made made of bulletproof glass - a great irony considering the classes they’ve attended and the security at the iron gates.

Welcome to the Johnson & Johnson’s, leave the .223 at home next time, Damien. Would you care for a drink did you ask the trainer don’t worry I already did (what a question in this period, Mrs. Robinson reflected)? Mirrors slanted away from the walls as they soared towards the stratosphere interrupted by the arched ceiling and the golden molding in the great hall of the balding mogul’s mansion. The realism of the gazes trapped in the European paintings challenged the indifference of the Iowan safety established near the turn of the century. Safely looking up at the ceiling (because no one else was looking), Mrs. Robinson noticed paintings by Woody’s heroes on the walls.

As her shiny heels clicked behind her husband and his boss, the felt her face sink into its bones, her chest press down at her stomach, “oh, that’s George Washington,” she whispered as a code red level of inhibition began to swirl inside her. There he was, “The Father of His Country,” mounted on a horse in the New Jersey woods. Woody and Damien had a similar relationship [to other professional relationships like this one].

Right, right, oh of course. Next time, no such thing. Bust down the double doors on the field next time. Haha, yes. The logs from the inner thoughts during this interaction proved so large as to be correctly-termed ‘unwieldy.’

Winning Race

Moven

In a hole, a deep dark one, there spouts a steady stream of fecal matter. At its source, you. You are the source of a reprehensible fountain of feces. I like it. Last night, I had a dream about you. I dream of you often. All kinds of positions, all kinds of sensations, those dreams with the wide hips and crooked yellow teeth. The dreams with softly prominent nipples in a beige Baniyaan.

So then Johnny went walken...he went walken, without you. He said, "Banksy dog, why you always gotta shit right here? Ha, dog knows we about to get out this nice shit, so he gotta shit right before we hit the ghetto." Do you remember? "I'm just more of a minimalist, ya know, I hate kitsch." Johnny looked at that clown and wished Banksy had shat on his foot.

I wish my dreams came true...oooh. I don't know what to do. This month, in this month, I need to stop dreaming of you. When your hair is just right, there lies a cemetary of gelatinous coffins atop your head. And beneath the graveyard, a landing spot, for the stones I will throw when I destroy you. Lovingly, I muttered the rest of what I always say - it's the undisputed truth.

Engauged

Mother of god! I dropped this zesty salsa all over my freshly starched white shirt. My brain faltered. My head let me down. I need a shnazzy cleaning product to remove this blemish. It's outside of the tie-buffer. It's outside of the boundary of tie bufferdom. In the distance I saw a red circle. That was my target. I have been a pilot for almost 8 years. I've seen my fair share of tough landings, but in terms of suicide missions, this was my first.

Tah-boooo. I will stalk you until the day you die...she said. She said, a hundred times. It's a Texas mow-down. Vvvvrrrrr...motion sickness. To many mistresses down to speak of to dream of a little vice, a small vice me and you. Little afternoons, tiny indulgences. Steppin' and driftin' in the fiery aftermath, of my destruction, which was taboo to mention. Even in this terrifying new medium. Freaky squeak the E. I know that money is the big funny.

Hey quick question, actually no, actually my question doesn't make much sense anymore. In that short time...my question no longer made sense. Twas irrelevant. Sick [sic]. In the big money. Wet dreams. Muddy transactions. What the fuck is that noise? Listen, think twice about what I'm going to say right now: I can't figure you out. What a tell. What a sick and twisted lie. Slime. Slime. Fallout. Begin, to end. Tell me what I want to hear.

Imperative, you say? I'll try interrogative. Who was there on the night of the alleged rape? What do you mean your dad will beat this? What do you mean you hate [racial epithet]? How can you be so insensitive? What's a rake? Isn't that for leaves? Why dost thou celebrate bygones? I found proof, aren't you scared? Why aren't you scared? Why do you talk about your dad so much? What about your mom? Do you have a mom? I don't, Chris.

Transgenerational Despondence: Part I

From the curb our muscles tensed up so we stretched them out. We gave them a good stretch and ascended an impressive set of stairs. Inside a cool dude in the cool atrium greeted us. The pine and marble only made sense because of the legacy. The hospital was so nearby, I'd get there one day after an explosion, after a series of intelligent decisions culminating in a high test score and an impressive list of misrepresentations on expensive paper. The place was perfect, no further questions Your Honor — though, you have sweat and soda stains on your oversized light brown t-shirt. That's the difference, we all thought. Our thinking was so uninformed it enfraudened things right off.

I had no idea. Let me just do something I know. Everyone else knows it but I'll do it and I'll find something a little obscure. I'll jump all over that and memorize things. It wasn't enough at the beginning and the rear-view mirror was positioned poorly. I met a few people but mostly I met lists. I met lists of words. Common intercourse never really occurred or was ever desired. Thus friendships never formed. This is not to suggest I myself am anything more than a list. I am a list. Some people imagine themselves long lists, but in actuality they're pretty short lists. I haven't met a person in a while. I haven't let myself be a person in order to meet another person. People and lists are indivisible, so there's no point in getting all cynical about people. Some lists are better than others according to different people but that's no matter. How often does a person emerge from their list, rendering the list antiquated and uninformed? That's what's valuable, after all. If the list is never disputed than you're just a list, and when you emerge as a person you're predictable, reinforcing your listness. Well I never even read the list on that place, even though there was a pretty straightforward one readily available. The place is a list.

Erudition never tempted me because I missed the opening gunshot. I was just about to start the backwards 'c' at the bottom of the second upper-case 's' in 'SAS' when the gunshot went off for my first year at the place. I really knew my elementary triangles. You know how some people know shit that isn't life-essential? Well that's how I knew triangles. Some people can hold an egg in their right hand and tell you the size of the yolk, other people can estimate the outside air temperature within two degrees – anyway that's when the starting gun went off. I had a napkin in my collar and an almost-empty plate of linguini in front of me when a whole bunch of the others started running. I didn't even notice. I spun the last good forkfull of linguine against my spoon.

Some people use this head/false-start analogy as an excuse. It's legitimate, you'll never convince me otherwise, but it's not as encompassing as audiences presume the complainers intend it. The complainer eventually goes to the bathroom, washes up, and crosses the starting line. So get off it. It's not a solicitation for as much as you'd think, though really, the solicitation part undermines the whole thing. Which is why it's bullshit that it even comes up, but it does because it's easy. It's a creed. So I'll get off it. The face of manual labor got a facelift, and the prize for doing the new manual labor was similarly upgraded. But the byproducts of the new manual labor proved most appealing. So there we were, a bunch of lists walking around with lists, showing other lists how to be better lists, hoping some lists wouldn't be as appealing to other lists, and crossing shit off our own and each other's lists, disrupting lists temporarily or even permanently, and before you know it the impressive set of stairs were less impressive. We still stretched it out before climbing them and then a list of five iterated through a list of lists about 20 times modulo four.

Along the way I saw some stuff and felt certain ways. I don't even know how much feeling went into the stuff I saw. At the very least, very little of the feeling divorced itself from the feeling of myself. Most of the time ... feeling myself. Which was great, and sad, and all-encompassing, and a perfect analogy that is too taboo to use even in this highly indulgent space. So use your imagination as I use this highly indulgent space, and feel yourself. That may be one of the most ironic things I've ever written, followed of course by this, which is par for the course: self-congratulatory indulgence in a public forum with a highly predictable audience.

And that's the way things went. I indulged myself with “feelings” and enjoyed the terrain, which brings me to my next point about autonomy. Autonomy is a piece of cake, a bag of chips, and a sandwich that you wouldn't touch even though everyone else in the room has mayonnaise pockets on the sides of their mouths. That's autonomy in the big city. It doesn't make sense, it's cheap, and it's gross to you at once and perfectly acceptable after a little superiority-erosion. Anything and everything makes sense in some sense.

Little triggers set me off. In one case, I was triggered and made vulnerable. I grew obssessed and out of nowhere, the far off goal slid into focus, vaguely out of focus, and then abruptly back in under the bright lights, the highway lights, the warm lights, the Main lights. I lost it though, but that wasn't my fault, in a sense. Another trigger set me off and has gone completely unfulfilled. I am set off. 'Vulnerable' doesn't describe it properly because it suggests a susceptibility which is only a part of the whole, and that's bullshit.

So unconsciously last night, I got a little closure on the second trigger I mentioned, which was great. I was working on an assignment about Argentina. The assignment was for some unnamed class that I had never registered for. The point of this is not that I was in a class that I hadn't registered for or that I was completing an assignment for no reason. I had the assignment, I had to research Argentina in order to complete it. Argentine politics actually. So there I was. In the place where I was historically vulnerable to triggers, trying to do some research, and all my closest lists were hanging out with me. The really close ones. The ones whose lists included me, the ones that appeared on my list. I apple-tabbed to the right and turned my head and saw the gatekeeper. The historical gatekeeper, and I wouldn't use the word 'gate' because it's so impossibly annoying, but it's the only word. I had seen the gatekeeper quite a lot here, but only in mythology did she actually guard something so valuable. They were lying down on top of each other, the gatekeeper between us. Why would they be lying down here? No idea. The face emerged and I noticed it first, and in my unconscious state my organs fluttered as they would if I weren't lying down with my eyes closed. All of my closest friends engaged, but I never did. I left, dejected, and had an incredible lightning shock of introspection. I know what to say, I know how to act, I can do this. Before I could speak, however, I was finally engaged. Immediately lambasted for behavior that I can't remember, I started going through the script I had just devised to calm myself down and deal with the pain of committing a crime I wasn't even aware I had committed. I asked for two minutes, knowing that I'd need more than one. We went outside and my back burned as I left. “There's nothing to concern yourself with!” I felt like yelling that behind me, “this is just for closure.” When we left the three-story high school corridors we were in front of DiFara's Pizzeria. I reversed the order that I was supposed to say things in, and walking north down the street, I said, “I know you were appalled by my behavior (which I don't remember), but I hope you know how much you mean to me.” At once she nodded, but the next thing I knew she was clutching a small cannister and was spraying a toxic, white substance at me, yelling. I avoided it but the residue vapors were all around us and we clutched each other's forearms as we opened our mouths without breathing and shook our heads all around as the particles fell around us. Our eyes were irritated and there was a tension now that I will never forget. I finished what I had rehearsed, “You are a strong leader and an incredible teacher, for those reasons you are beautiful.” I said it like that. “For those reasons.” It was a bit of a lie but I knew after I said it that it was the reason why I inverted what I had practiced. I couldn't lead off with “you are beautiful” because I would've gotten maced in the face.

After this we walked back up some big impressive stairs and into the high school corridors. My mouth was enormous. It felt like I had chalky semi-solid growths linked together and tugging on my teeth. I knew that if I bit down my teeth would fall out so I just followed closely behind without speaking. It was such a long journey back to the desk where my Argentina assignment was. Along the way, I put my fingers in my mouth to try and figure out what was in my mouth. It was gum. I started scraping it out and using my fingernails to floss it out of my teeth. By this point I was back with all of my friends. All the lists were there, every one I had met, ever. At a giant table. I sat back down and looked up...my mouth clean.

Ignition Post-Position

If the devil parked in my business, I'd light him up and throw out the receipt. In the city, we deliver each other from daily sins, we drench up and down all day, all night. We expand like blue bubble gum at the intersection of flighty emotion cushions and the devil's comeuppance. "For you only the highest grade sirloin," I told her in passing. And she said, slow down son.

I heard my mind and transcribed what I heard. It told me to slow down, take one thing at a time, break it down break it down. What's complex wholly is partly simple. Ok so now I break it down I draw some vertical lines. Now I have two brass parts: a trumpet and a saxophone. I'm sure you see the discrepancy already, don't you? Obviously, you can't play the trumpet while you play the saxophone, so stop trying, she said.

Follow me to wider times, follow me to the future, I frequent here often. You're going to need a ticket, a special permission authorization from the government. If you live in certain zip codes this isn't a problem - I'll pluck ya right out of your coward-hut. We love the system. We love the system. We love the system. We love fossil fuels and their refinement. We love men behind booths and behind messy wooden desks: "my office is such a mess, excuse me." We love instant incarceration, we love petroleum pillows in the cell. "That's fine," my rockin' dude told me with a rifle beneath his tummy.

Happiness, surround me, enfuel me, breathe me. Light me up spark me down, dull to a barely conscious chaotic din, and then ravish our artillery all at once. Throw the sticks down, zap me with your purple turquoise voltage. What parameters does my current mood pass to this periodic lamedar I've developed. My inhibition-system needs a little reworking if I'm going to start this engine again. Well, isn't that the moral of the story these days. I wanna modulate in and out of that. I don't want to lose this, lose my control. Day after day it went on and on. On a hill where dinosaurs roamed, I stared down at my dreams, nestled in the urban sunset.

I flip on the lights, full throttle chuckle, there she is...[explicit, must purchase the whole album to view]. Wolverine-man tumble fall down down down and out, stop the bleeding. Elbows at odds, heart pounding, seeking the comfort of darkness and your [explicit, must purchase the whole album to view] skin. What scares me is that I may never get that again. Deadness, as a feeling, is interesting, and it explains alot about recreational drug use. A gentle breeze or a Manilow melody whips the deadness into glory. Deadness dams the onslaught of a raging environment or a familiar pop tune too, and for that reason, I desire it, for I would relish it, I want some relish on it, I want to relish the relish on my dead sandwich of life, a tautology.

Spin in to the room, it's so bright now, everyone's doing the ancient dance. Ancient to the extent that this colonial would know. Bright to the extent that hundreds of oil lanterns hung from the rafters can produce. Hung in the sense that this is happening someplace colonial. Following the formula, we riderate: riding to the right! the devil leave you alone. the devil leaves you, the fiery devil leaves...he leaves the oil lanterns burning. Such formulaic tastes and preferences mean that someone, anyone, can program a robot to come and get me to do anything. I am thoroughly surmountable. I AM THOROUGHLY SURMOUNTABLE! fuckin' you up. fuckin' you up! thoroughly surmountable!

Leaving yet? No. Still the One baby. Tim Duncan, Lenore, glandular amputation, meatloaf. Living peacefully in myself, of myself, but not to the gas mileage. Twilight transformation. Slowly, we changed. We widened in all directions. We rose above the rest and attained a truly special vantage point. From her shoulders I could see water towers and suburban grid deviation. A charge of night: and I could see Idlewild! the distant shores of Rio de Plata, Catanian seaports, brick slabs smugly resting on an insurmountable hill, London. I am charged. My veins have been alchemically, eugenically altered for ever, for the [explicit].

So formulaic it hurts, you know? So programmable. I could be abstracted away, I could be a freelance job for someone who really hates me. I'm itchin' for a comeuppance, ya see? I'm dyin' for a little fourth-dimensional skewing. Burn it up. Burn my time for me honey. Make it run, make it melt, just burn it up. There are times and places I tell myself, there are spots and there are vines, and when you cross vines and neglect spots, you end up with, well...my ideal job. Sign me up! Register. Rewind. Cross-square costume shopping just a week before everything changed, forever.

Oh drugs, oh rusty whistling and dampened advice...just tell me what I need to know in order to get from the urban hustle to that windy perceptual plane of recreational depressants mixed with professional light equipment and maybe a hook nose and a flat chest and a dog and a helmet....two helmets...and a garden. and an [explicit reference].

Epic ant-hill commando, ARM! (adillo). Road rage scares me, but I never understood how yellow could be slandered in such an irrevocable manner. Little old wizard guy in blue said, "you're going to have to come up with a whole lot more than that if you want a tubride to packed tri-state-area stadiums in forty years." A little slap here, an elbow slam there, patriotism-veneered placards on nude babes way...whoo...river wild, river wild, river slams me up and down through this time. It's venereal really. The chaos of the river, the chaos of our situation the vines and spots the straights and the hills.

Paste-down

Chop service available, chop service encouraged - ya big double-L. I have none of the aforementioned affectations in my knapsack today - and therein lies the problem. Oh well god bless America your exposed left shoulder does wonders for the grey hoodie on your right. It hangs on you like I want to hang on you. Throw one of those turquoise jewels into my mouth, see what happens...

We depart the scene when the disbelief of nineteen-thirty caresses the distant shore, and the daily production of luminescence slaps and whacks at the solar cheeks of the western cherubs. The sea, the chaos, the contractionation, the full-length body suits, and the third button haunt me during the ascending bass section. I dream of things to come & I dream of your return, but it's almost twenty hundred, we're running out of time.

Not if we run quicker, not if we concentrate, not if we navigate the nets of the first crossing. There's a way to deal with this problem of ours and it's not to panic. It's not to freak out, it's not to shun the savory sinews of the lesser creatures. The nutrients, those special nutrients who hold no office, who shame not yet who fly and scavenge.

All of that is too floral for me. I'm going to need another deposit, turquoise queen. Show me the front, suit up and button down. Return forever cycle cycle. The slowness, the buldup, the process, it's the process I desire. I desire the process, the mountain at the edge of the sea. We roll on to the edges and we flip across a teflon sea of lethargy, of dull fire on the horizon, it's almost twenty-one hundred - the chaos.

In the intermission we discuss cellular modules over a stiff cocktail. It's all about flow, she tells me. Yeah flowing sounds great I suspect, with no memory, we deliver the twins' care-packages. The distance the blossoming the success of it all the mirror on the wall. dreaming now I suppose but the straw pricks my nose and the show starts to begin. Inside the criminalized eyes lie the pollen from the buds of my wiring.

So things have changed now that we're back in the dark, now that twenty-two hundred is upon us. Now that the darkness has rooted itself the echoes reverberate in the distance and fluctuate their projection direction. We hear space laser factoids and brassy racism in the depths of the landscape. We can't make it out, there's no specificity, it's everyone - it pulses. We ascend occasionally but the driving rhythms bring us back, they cauterize our ideas with the chemical of the century. Sometimes the fed gets all motivated and that gives us hope. It empowers us, we yell and we modulate between the speeding highway and the bleak darkness we're going to suffer under for another at least eight hundred more flowscapes. Reason with the darkness, with the cacophony.

I'll give you a reason, it's order versus chaos and we're edging closer and closer towards the latter. I'm scared when the pulsing drops out and sixty-three tens climb the night stairs, holding candles, holding the keys - chemically masking our tears and pain. This will only last so long, this will only lead to a tear-down. A wide-mouthed take down, a scorching blistering process, a competition with the ages against the clock against the chaos and the cacophony. Against the windy mountain with the twin guides and the wide expanse of urban lanes ascending the tubed-in crossing.