Some bats are metaphorical, having metaphorical lice, symbolic rabies, and other unknown pathogens of irony—they are my preferred bat. But the bats in your area are all rather amorous.
The ordered swirl of houses and streets, from this high angle’ll spring at you now with the same unexpected, astonishing clarity as the circuit card had.
Never stopping reading until security finally forces the door and removes you from the premises.
Which is why you should probably upgrade your iPhone to a dog and move into a yurt in the woods of northern Minnesota to live a simple bucolic life off the grid, one devoid of all pop figurations and technological ecstasy, out there beyond the simulation.
Your insistence to dress in drag to Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar And Grill may not prove as contrary as you might wish. “Say there lil lady,” some fat honky will say, releasing equal parts stinky Old Spice and a kind of Mich Golden Lite mist all over your face.
Beauty and truth are waiting in California but they are not going to wait very long. Meanwhile the mystical emanations that’ll be shining from certain words’ll be shining brighter than ten thousand stars: Daimonic, Lana Del Rey, Vorstellung.
Astro-physics, though thrilling, is a zero-sum game: facts now will always become quaint fictions later on. Doubting that the stars are fire then isn’t so ridiculous.