Hauling Junk Metal with Calfskin Gloves






In deciding with whom to conduct myself, I have once again fallen upon myself. You will excuse this for I am the only one who knows me from the ground up. My parents were there, of course, from seed to sowing to bloom to full grown plant. Though, they now have a perspective at once invested and divergent. So, their joint point of view cannot provide the final word.

That leads me here: back again, upon myself, like a songwriter digging and dipping her pen into her own heart—deep and bloody with cellular truth. There is a hole in my life, and I will climb in to plug it up. Heating it up—The Positive Nothing—from within my solar furnace, hydrogen to helium depleting. And in depleting ending all starting over, ending all starting over.

You will call it failure, but to carry on makes no sense. It doesn’t make any sense, in any language, in any form. Ending this emptiness is the best way forward. Upon myself I will fall. Rainfall. Downfall. Reavers fall on lonely space crawlers, at the edges of our control, in fictitious mirror worlds on big, sliver screens and reflective flat panels, so too shall I devour my empty haul and the travelers living therein. 



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