Somewhere in the back echoes of my 29-year-old mind, I can hear, but cannot place, a punk rock primal yell about malice. Diphtheria drizzles rain and locusts upon the soul. Pigeonhole gunfights mark spaces and place where territory is hotly contested. When life is trauma there is no time to second guess. Chips fall where they may, snowflakes fall and all look the same. Trying to figure out how to knot stability when there are others who falsely beseech themselves, prostrate and castrated on open doorways. Manipulation is malice. Bears launched hungrily at robot pinpricks. Daydream plans an end in a procrastinated tomorrow. Lilibet marches onwards in her courtyard shouting orders at the air, practicing her vocal chords, as dominoes fall in the forest that no one could hear. Museum preservation microwaved eddies and EMF readings beeping out transparently on a global PA. Mark marks his words as he heads down to a market in facemask, toenails freshly clipped he walks on by with a confident gait. Strollers parked like horses in front of watering hole saloons.
