by KUBOA
I dreamed about endless freedom. I had to get back to the Nothing. I was losing my grasp on it. I had to end my marriage.
Yes, I was a fool. Kind of a dick, actually. An asshole.
This world is madness and only the mad are in love.
It seems like—but, no, best not to go there for now. Let’s put it this way: Henry Miller was right when he decided to let the dead feed on the dead.
And the truth is that Kaye seemed to worship a certain kind of death. It’s not fair to say that, but that’s what I saw. And, worse, I could feel my own muscles starting to decay.
Let me say something. Let me say this. And then I’ll unhook the cord and everything will be meaningless again. But let me say this: the prisoners guard the prisoners. If I agree never to be a guard, does that mean that I’m getting closer to my sweet Nothing? I hope so.
When I was a kid and teachers would ask the students what they wanted to be when we grew up, I would tell them I wanted to be a hobo. If not for being cursed with having to write, I would probably do it. I still might have it in me.
I slice dead animal flesh, salted and pressed, and seal it in plastic bags and then hand it over the counter. The prisoners are trying to eat me. They’ll never eat of me. That’s for Anne alone.
