hermsss

Significance is gained in retrospect just as comfort in repetition monday morning, your voices like Paris at night, New York in the morning fluid and soft, syllables of sound weaving through the curtains the distilled light streaming across our fingers. ** How wrong were we to think that immortality means never dying? The goal isn't to live Forever, the goal is to create something that will. You live in our sweatsoaked undershirts, faded and pale, kneecaps obfuscated by cotton. Our Kohled eyes purged clean of black. Our father in heaven, holy be your name Prayer beads wreaking down our palms to soothe the guilt of linin

Midnight. The lightning striking the sky in forked tongues, brilliant blue electric splitting the sky into a million deadly shards. Rain tumbling down the raindark firmament, a broken dam, hollowly thrumming the against the metal casing of the air conditioner outside the window jacking its nervous pulse. The thunder hurtling recklessly in the dark slipping landmines in moon of our skulls. And Victoria harbour, how it’s obscured in mist. Then five in the morning, when the sky is the shade of faded jeans. The clouds wrapping their celestial bodies around craters of the darkest blue. And you are all alone, forehead pressed against glass.

i just want to make life as i go along. i think the sight of women in tiny black dresses, catching cabs on the sidewalk by the streetlight, 10 p.m,, is precious. i'd spend a life watching them.

[static] FC: Hello? Is anybody there? Over, Atlantic Flight 033

FC: Over, is this Atlantic Flight 033? We’ve lost your position. Atlantic Flight 033, do you copy? AF033: We’ve crashed on a snowcapped mountain. FC: How many casualties? Do you have a headcount? AF033: Sixty-four FC: Sixty four? Are there no deaths? AF033: The dead have been recovered while the injured are in the process of being healed? [Static, mumbling in the background] FC: I’m not sure what to make of your previous statement. AF033: There are no deaths. FC: Are you saying that you are reviving the dead? AF033: Trust me. We are safe here. I know what I am doing. FC: Excuse me. May I speak to the pilot?

I almost shat myself screaming as I walked out of the jagged threshold curving the radio wire around the bend of the wrecked aluminium for a better signal. That little dipshit, sobbing like a planewreck himself plastered with obsidian asphalt dirt all over his face, the hollow of his mouth eclipsed by his puckered lips wrinkled swollen shut like a bruised prune. I asked him, 'What the fuck are you doing here, you little sissy?' ‘band aids,’ you see the snot slowly sliding down from the twin hollows of his nostrils, coagulated spit and snow dissolving his face into a refracted melt, ‘and…peanuts.’ ‘Peanuts and

boluses of starch clogged up in the back of the escalator of my throat not wanting to be drained to the purgatory of the toilet.