>A mirror cracks along a predetermined pattern
>It reflects only in x-ray
>Follow the scent of salt through the doorway, out the window.
>Follow it east.
>Past the trucks, over the precinct, just outside the old hospital.
>Make a right and follow the street signs until they turn blue and lose their letters.
>Turn back east and keep following, go until numbers go dull and the sky vanishes.
>There is a home, but it's not yours anymore, what are you doing, the sea is gone
>There is a point where one is so far from home that every way leads away from it
>A point of no return
>A point where every direction moves you further away from everything before
>Only a faded memory exists, distilling the image into silhouettes and lemon laced words
>Until the very letters lose their meaning, and the memory has been so distorted as to have never actually existed
>The alarm sounds at 7:30
Under everything that defines a person, beneath the clothes and tags, then the hair
and flesh, through the hunger pains and sore throat, past the inflated liver and tarred
lungs, into the folds of the mind, through the frontal lobe and anchors, through the
hippocampus and traumas, then even deeper than the reptilian brain and instincts,
though not past the spinal cord. A long journey to find the most fundamental part of
a person. Is it fear or hunger, no. It's also not reproduction or competition. It's not
even pain. The basic part of a human, the part subsumes all of the human condition.
It's love.
The rust belt is a sea of something great that was supposed to happen. That time has
passed, that time never was. The rust belt never achieved that great. Despite the
people and output, and despite the executions and fires, it never finalized itself. The
thermal vent closed. It is forgotten, it's people forlorn, it's servants gone. Everything
was never ever and nothing is the new forever. It's rust, it's mold, it's the realization
that the bed isn't yours.
The sun is watching and narrating the world as it spins. Everywhere the sun touches
the sun repeats. It can't help itself, it is its nature. When the voice of the sun reaches
Earth, the atmosphere becomes a receiver and an encryptor. It takes the waves and
feelings of the sun and converts it into easy to comprehend concepts; wind and rain.
It's impossible to decrypt by any means. However sometimes, for brief moments,
that wind and rain, that encryption, can be understood. It's in the spine. The feet are
roots while shoulder blades become wings. The wind pushes up along the back and
the spine breaks down the noise into a series of signals and sensations. The brain
attempts to turn this noise into something comprehensible and in doing so can exist
where the sun does in photos like flickering lights.
>The city is historic, steel
>Where all roads connect is the final point of contention
>Pass back to the northwest is the new suburb, brick
>The village splits the city along an unnatural axis
>Projects line the sides of closed roads, concrete.
>The 5th floor window of a tower shows a man looking into a mirror
>The mirror is rays the man holed
>Wind blows and catches his back for story
>He puts on his coat and zips it, he'll unzip it tonight
>He'll do it again tomorrow
>Now give me a spin<
Wnena Cqnan Oxanena
It's raining, the valley is under flash flood alert and people are advised to stay off the roads. The rivers push higher than normal causing the hiking trails to be closed down for the day. Pollen, that was in the air a few hours ago, is now dragged back down the flowers they just left. The tents are sealed shut, no sound can be heard from any of them. All the while there's a singular eye watching the whole scene, God is in his tower. A window is left open, following it in a mirror reflects the world back in x-ray. The surface has cracked in a predetermined way, one crack splits a man in two. Exiting the window and following the scent of salt, there is a recently put out barrel fire, though the city did not cause this one. A pack of strays walk the boardwalk checking the trash cans for scraps from an era ago.
Outside the heart of the city, on the outskirts where development ceased, the rain is lighter. The scent of industry is less pronounced and the sky a different shade of gray. A truck moves along the motorway hauling old souvenirs. A mother and son move fast with their dog to get home soon. In the basements, families are talking, some reading, the young are drawing and the old are sleeping. Beneath them is an arrowhead from 8,000 years ago. Platoons move down the streets, squads of mice watch from the intersections. A truck that hadn't been moved goes warm, the first of hell's chorus sings as the copper alternator threatens to fry, but ultimately cannot deliver. The roads are yet to flood, and in some parts will never. A cat scampers under a deck satisfied with its catch.
At the edge of city limits all roads have been closed. Locked down some time before, now also by floods. Farmers set up makeshift dams to protect each other's crops. A barn, whose roof gave way some weeks ago, stands defiantly where the rest folded in upon themselves. All audio becomes lost in liquid static and video shows a present in the future. In a cellar a girl is celebrating a birthday party with friends; the cake was left in the rain. She moves the torn curtains that hide a small square window next to the ceiling, waving her wand, disturbing the dust. She makes a wish. The wish was covered by the movement of an electric locomotive, and the sound of magnet breaks. The train stops at a concrete platform, no more than one foot off the ground and sinking. The roof is made of sheet metal and is propped up by eight steel poles. The storm threatens to fold the roof in on itself, but it holds just barely. Water still leaks. Only two people are there for the 7 pm train. One wears green cotton coveralls, stained with mud and faded. He wears ankle high brown leather boots, suited for keeping water out, his coveralls tucked into them. With him was a canvas duffle bag, only slightly tattered, carrying stale bread, a few bottles of water, heroin, and a Pelic-Mabrie .357 rifle. In his left chest pocket, a few bullets and a ticket, in his right a needle. He pulls out his ticket and makes his way to the train. Behind him, now also moving towards the train, but without a ticket, is another man. He wears a gray Nomex overall, with bright horizontal yellow stripes. This man has black boots that go high above the ankle, but 2 inches short of his knee, his coveralls hide most of the boot. With this man is nothing else but 2000 Zvel.
A train approaches, a forgotten line. The cabins have been stripped of their red paint. The only identifier for the train was welded on the front, but it was obstructed by the present storm. No one cared much anyway, this was one of two trains that ran here, and the other one is proper. A loud and sharp eeeeeeer suppresses the thunder as the magnet breaks beg for mercy and a good cleaning. The train halts, a carriage door opens, a malnourished conductor. She doesn't descend the few steps and simply stands in the open door. She wears a blue coat that falls just above the knees and blue pants that fit loosely. Although not something visible, she has a belt that has had a hole punched in far enough up as to fit her thin stature. On her face are thick spectacles that make her eyes smaller, myopia. She moves her hand and gently encourages the two men to come hither and to hand over their tickets. Her fingers pale and jittering. As the men approach, and as the green coverall man prepares to hand over his ticket, she stops him. She looks at both men without moving her neck, and wordlessly, through the use of eyes and hidden expression, tells them she won't bother checking their tickets. She makes a sharp 180 degree turn and returns back inside, probably then making a left and going towards the engine compartment. The two men don't stop, they don't even hesitate. They instead walk up the few steps and enter the train, the Nomex man closing the door behind him. Both make a right turn and make their way into the traveler compartments. Their boots would squeak on the wooden floor if not for being neglected for some time.
The first compartment they enter has very few people. It's not first class or business or economy, after all that is much investment for this line, it's just a boring wooden box compartment that was designed to move as many people as possible. Light bulbs hang off wire above, their humming out done by the rain hitting the top of the roof. Most of the windows are covered up by plywood in lieu of proper glass replacements. Both of these make the interior all the more claustrophobic. There's just enough space to walk one person down the middle. Each seat is just one bench and a very thin table runs parallel to said bench, a piece of paper couldn't even lay on it. This train goes through pornography poor enough areas to justify being put on the lowest priority for all things maintenance, pay, and comfort. The whole cabin is at an angle caused by harsh winds pushing on the train. The two men, keeping their heads low and eyes down, move further down the compartment and move to the next compartment. It only took them 10 steps to do that. In the second compartment it is the same thing, just with even less people and this time with a leaky roof. Unlike back at the station, this leak has a 5-gallon bucket under it; it's empty but slowly filling. Again, the two men make their way to the back, going into the final compartment. Again in 10 steps. Here it's the same story, minus the leak and people. There is no one back here. The man in the green coveralls takes a seat in the left aisle, four seats from the front. It is one of two left side seats with a window still. He goes as close to the window as possible and sits his duffle next to him, putting him between glass and canvas. The Nomex man takes a seat on the right aisle, six seats from the front. This is one of the four windowed seats on this side. Much as the green overall man, he sits next to the window. His eyes are looking towards where the city is, but the storm is blocking the horizon. For these two men, they never intend to return to this place. Neither missing it, neither regretting it, both downhearted.
Before any of them could start to organize their thoughts and harsh whirring sound, caused by the electric locomotive re-engaging, and the lights flickering, they brought everyone back to the present, to train line 48. A series of hard vibrations are felt throughout the cabins. The whirring dissipates as the engine warms up enough to start moving the eccentric crank, and the lights stabilize, now a bit brighter. A horn is heard and the train starts moving. The rotten planks, scattered granite stones, and warped steel-aluminum alloy that make up the railway all combine into a bumpy, loud, uncomfortable ride. It is technically still safe and sound, and most importantly, within regulation. Both of the men stare into the storm fog as the land around them moves backwards. The bumps on the hardwood benches are cruel on their back, but kinder than this place.
>A radio tower in the heart of the city looks for a being
>And within the alleys and along the bombed out apartments there's nobody
>Behind all the radio chatter of foreign entities, nothing
>Underneath the paved roads, where tram lines once ran, never there
>Playing on eternity, looping the same song, shouting into the empty
>Everyone, everywhere, at the same time, was lost to the expunged
>All forever never there.
>I can't not ball<
Step 2 of 9999
>A shattered mirror and a shattered mirror that has been stepped on look and operate the same<
Untitled
>In this sense I am emotionally industructable<
Untitled
>I CAN'T not ball<
I'm an Individual
>A terror lies under the shadow of who I was<
Burning
>Its truth always in the back of my throat<
Oppression
>I'll never get into Heaven with receipts like this<
The Only Path
>Every night I pop my head off, a new one is forced from the spine to take its place<
Untitled
>I crawl into corners and wait for the night to past<
Lips
Ecevlbration
failure
Make it Stop
Tribute to the Concrete Cathedral
Amrrmrk Keqi
>I zip up my pants, then zip up my jacket
>I zip up my bag and go outside
>I then unzip my bag and pull out books
>I put every back in the bag and zip it up
>I then unzip my bag and pull out books, again
>I put every back in the bag and zip it up, again
>I then unzip my bag and pull out books, again
>I put every back in the bag and zip it up, again
>I go home and unzip my jacket and unzip my pants
>I go to sleep
>I do it again
>I am growing weary of this zipping and unzipping
>Through this weariness I either give up or superseded my nature
>Thousands of times
>And I have to win every time
>every time
>every time
>until the day I die
>every time
I'd be the Greatest Polymath Ever at Anything, but I Am Dependent
Hyper-Realism
Remanence
Regret
Contempt for you
E QIEREGI
>Here in the City of Babylon I have found everything!
>Here in the Library of Babel I have learned everything!
>Never figured out my happiness though...
