The cosmopolitans, an extraordinary bunch, will not be missed. Soreness derives from the throat, and their throats are oysters. So I'll make, yet...another, allowance. Find a line. Smack some stuff around a bit. Inhale the dust. I hope you can crawl, I hope you can crawl with your hands and forearms only. Drag your entire rotten corpse by slamming one fist in front of the other and pressing mostly down and ever-so-forward enough to travel 20 miles like that – among the grime and blood and intellectually-curious, athletic rats. As appealing as the mention of your name...take it from me.
Missy doesn't care. She closes her eyes and feels each breath I take. I try to do the same but can't help thinking about her hair and the stars, my life after she finally leaves for good. [ ... ] We see each other in daydreams or in the leaves of man-made digital trees. On the edge of the brainlessly large megalopolis, I walked with Missy along the polluted shores. I asked her to stop crying, then I dried her eyes out with a napkin I had stuffed in my pocket after some suburban drive-thru. Do I regret IT? No, no! Ack! Row! Nimbly din sophistication (and personal despondence).
Squared off, detached...I got tugged backwards, blindfolded, in a sense. There was what I was used to, there's what I'd been down with all this time. Tugged and tugged against what I knew was forward. Slowly I could feel the tugbar straining. I felt the tension before the snap. Thickening, sickening, I would hear the pop. Oh fuck...well, now it's...now it's...SPLENDID.
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