i kidnapped myself. the door is ajar, deliberately inviting; inside i lay expectant like an overconfident beggar.
i think back to when i wasn’t thinking so much, an unsettling acceptance of time’s toll; where spirits of my past hang like dead objects. it’s a birthday party, lee broom‘s carousel in the milan central station appears like a destination more than a journey, but i suppose it was a bit of both. the simplicity of his white celebration is commanded over by the time machine, a brutal stone clock; an adequate metaphor for the movement of corpses, its raw resignation would have been so much more complete were it not for the fussy little designer brass foot which separates its weight from this world.
everything moves on.
jean tinguely; a perpetual motion, a cathedral of drama erupting. i don’t know what made me strong, but i know you made me weak. your love is cold and horrible, still like forcing open a spring bud, i thrusts myself inside.
late evening, although it didn’t feel that late to me. the metro nearly closing; we ran across the piazza, i thought we were just walking. that last drink that didn’t happen, that last goodbye. bye bye my friend.
in a flickering of synthetic energy i manage to get back, only to jerk of at the hotel with empty images of you.