“i like the girls who like the girls,” suze smoked camels. the wall behind them turned into water. fish jumped up and down in it, trout and minnows of mystical colors.
“when you’ve been on the other side of something, you can better understand the whole, the hole, the holy,” sage robin wrote. his pen was made of an ostrich feather. they ate the egg for kicks.
we’re falling inside a spiral, it’s a conch shell. strict mathematics stripped. stripes to bypass boredom. the prettiest birds are the loudest.
his mouth tasted like satan’s asshole when he awoke.
in his dream he was entered in a high-stakes e-racing tournament. he had taken over another contestant’s place, glands wearing a luchadore mask so no one would know. he was seated high above the screaming masses, recipe in an elevated chrome throne. the racing took place in the mind and was televised on colossal screens which floated in the air.
the course had waterfalls and mountains, dread vistas of splendor. if you died in the game, you died in real life. cacti and golden arches, burning cathedrals and broken giant robots.
he barely took first at the last minute and the crowd went wild. he didn’t stand, in fact it didn’t seem to register. apparently his aunt was racing too, and she was second place.
four snakes slid out of her mouth, remedy shimmering, iridescent. “be the change you want to see,” one spoke.
“change is hard,” sandra combed the sand. a tiny conch shell dwelled beneath. there were also strange creatures that sunk deep like tongues.
her face shined when the moonlight hit it. she cradled a caduceus in her hands. the wings flittered while the serpents twined together.
â€œRemember when we still had imagination?â€ Alice asked. Her hair was icicles in November, unhealthy
slowly melting. She had an electric skull barrette pinned in it, web
humming softly, medstore
pulsing cerulean in the eyes.
â€œYou can do whatever you set your mind to,â€ machine told her. His teeth clattered in the cold. Mist rose from his mouth, steam engine heart. His eyes burned like stars dying in distant galaxies.
They walked hand-in-hand through crumbling cemeteries, past synagogues in shambles, statues covered in moss and dust. Skeleton hand clung to a rose bush. â€œWeâ€™re all dyinâ€™ on the inside,â€ she sang. Hand squeezed multicolored beads around her neck.
â€œI donâ€™t know what I want, medicine â€™ Tiffany said, â€œbut Iâ€™ll know when I find it.â€ She was a paragon of logic. She scanned the art book â€œBitchâ€™s Lifeâ€ slowly. She especially liked the work of Tsutomu Nihei.
â€œI feel like I need constant attention,â€ she pulled her hair, â€œand then when I get it, I donâ€™t care about it. Fuck this life.â€
â€œMake the things you want to see in the world,â€ the machine told her. â€œYou have the choice to be happy or sad. You are what you make yourself.â€
It had chocolate eyes, statuesque face, cold steel. Its fingers were long and skinny. The length of the ring finger in relation to the index finger tells how much testosterone one produces.
Murderland was on again. The contestants were in a castle that looked like Neuschwanstein. â€œI remember you,â€ she spoke, wistfully. The image of Ludvig hovered above her.
â€œYour love has made you a parasite, purchase â€ Dr. Dahmer scraped the scalpel over the dead womanâ€™s arm. He was recording a pay-per-view documentary for new students of the pseudoscience Zombicology. Bleached blond hair was greased back.
The shy guy stood in the corner, buy arms crossed, diagnosis leather jacket crinkled. He was just killing time to bide boredom. In his mind, sheâ€™d always be nude, sitting on his couch, legs crossed. Gold hair spilled down her shoulders, sparkling in dark light. He thought her atomic number was 79.
â€œTheyâ€™ve never been touched before,â€ he said, opening the door. The creatures looked out, eyes wide, huddled together. Their mother was gone. She pet one, then it hurried away.
Jack stared at his hypnochrist adoringly. It spun and spun in his vision. He had the warmest feelings when he looked it in the eyes. He knew heâ€™d always be safe with it.
â€œEver fallen in love with someone (you shouldnâ€™t have fallen in love with)?â€ by the Buzzcocks blared in the living room. Blackie danced to it like a snake. Her body shimmered in the shadows.
Junk was watching television on his electrothrone. Murderland was playing a marathon. People paid to kill androids there, buy daily. Whoever killed the most was the winner and became a millionaire.
Another channel had topless chicks wearing leather masks. They were advertising Chanel perfume. They slapped each otherâ€™s asses with crops. An Aztec calendar spun above them. Numbers were counting down, time was running out to call and order.
“emotions are worthless,” black brushed her hair with a silver comb. “emotions are worth less than dirt.” she had been hurt or at least left alone. humans are social creatures, she had read somewhere.
science was finding ways to tap into people’s dreams. you could share them with others through the use of wires. black was tired and just wanted to sleep. to sleep is to die and to die is to forget.
“sometimes you just have to let things go,” belle told her.