Nailice in Wonderland:
There's something inexplicably virtuous about life. It begins with the skin, i think. Disinterest is waiting at the door. The author's haven is in the unrest of wholly belonging to any social class inasmuch as those classes are highly imaginary and yet we live them. Where do we live? On some days i live from website to website. I don't think I've seen the sun, i mean really seen it, in months. And what is imagination? To imagine a nation and seek solace in that which can only be thought or dreamed and such is a work of shameless art. Death is at the expense of living it. I sometimes find idiocy, pure idiocy liberating while succumbing to the neon black irony of alphabet letters all scattered in innerspace. I keep needing to go back to buddhism but without the books or youtube. Every night the dream gets tighter and tighter. I am either following someone, waiting for someone, or doing what someone tells me to do. I don't have a face or a body, just movement and situation with colors and furniture. At around 9:30am you were four years old talking to me in the form of a round button. A close-up of your short bangs and voice talking to me as a button and it made perfect sense. I listened closely and found myself standing in a square. A baby carriage was being pushed around with baby girl inside who belonged to me. It was dark like 3pm in Siberia. Natalya was pushing the baby around because i couldn't. The atmosphere moved and stretched like taffy. You woke me with a text asking about LA and New Years. Even the text-message stretched like taffy and that's why it took a while to respond. In the sagging belly of the air mattress i refuse to get up and curl like a petal on an old magnolia or the vintage telephone ring that purrs one by one that somewhere a voice is there in a body forwarding the call, refusing to pick up. I would crawl right into that voicemail box if only i were invisible enough and fall asleep on a bed of saved messages for good.
*stars*
Clipwis Carroll
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