Sunday, September 16, 2012

The Heat Death Of The Universe Can't Come Soon Enough

Your band sucks. Your team sucks. Your school sucks. Your city sucks. Your club sucks. Your state sucks. Your tribe, your race, your religion, your nation, your favorite place to eat, the car you drive, anything you support - everything awful. The dozen ways you have of identifying yourself so you fit somewhere, so you have friends, so you have a believable story in case anyone asks. You pick carefully copied folk tales repeated by thousands, by millions... about how people like you get along. I don't care how people like you get along. All your stories are fake. Because you don't fit anywhere. You've never fit anywhere.

Don't you know how good that is? Don't you know how soon it will be over?

You can hang any sign, flag, sticker, statue, or simple stupid demand on your wall, but your fingerprints are all over this place. Like the ridges on a stained glass window, like grooves on a cave, like crystals, like the veins of leaves dying red. Doomed and delicate and beautiful.

The one thing you have. And all your life, all your life you bastard, you've done everything to give it away.


  1. Nope. Actually I haven't.

    But I know how you feel.

  2. Damn. Guess this steaming cup of joe isn't going to help me through the day after all.

  3. "Doomed and delicate and beautiful."
    ^- This is why I can't stop reading you. You are, somehow, a prose-form poet.


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