ashtray

it really makes me sick. it's like being in an empty room: empty hologram people walking around peeking at themselves in mirrors and surreptitiously misting their tonsils with mouth spray, just in case they have to kiss another ghost like themselves.

i began to see this world as one where citizens stare, say, at the armless Venus de Milo and fantazise about amputee sex or self-righteously apply a fig leaf on the statue of David, but not before breaking off his dick as a souvenir. all events became omens; i lost the ability to take anything literally.

and then i had an uncontrollable reaction. my heart went bang; i broke into sweat and the words of Rilke, the poet, entered my brain -- his notion that we are all born with a letter inside us, and that if we are true to ourselves, may be allowed to read it before we die.

so the point of all this was that i needed a clean slate with no one to read it. i needed to drop out even further. my life had become a series of scary incidents that simply weren't stringing together to make for an interesting book and time was running out.

whether i feel more that i want to punish some aging crock for frittering away my world, or whether i'm just upset that the world has gotten too big -- way beyond my capacity to tell stories about it, so all i'm stuck with are these cigarettes and coffee.

i feel insulted either way.