Everything is still falling apart.

It happens that fast.
i say, because i think i like you.
marla says, "not love?"
this is a cheesy enough moment, i say, don't push it.
everybody watching smiles.
i have to go, i have to get out of here.


the pool of blood spreading wider and wider until it touches her skirt.
she says, "patrick, that's enough, stop being dead."
The blood climbs the hem of her skirt, capillary action, thread to thread, climbing her skirt.
around me the men of project mayhem are screaming...
slips to the floor in a warm jumble.

everything in heaven is white on white.

[step out the front door like a ghost into a fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white. in between the moon and you angels get a better view of the crumbling difference between wrong and right]

The angels here are the old testament kind, legions and lieutenants, a heavenly host who works in shifts, days, swing. Graveyard. They bring your meals on a tray with a paper cup of meds.

didn't i realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness? can't i see we're all manifestations of love?...
we are not special.
we are not crap or trash, either.
we just are.
we just are, and what happens just happens.
and God says, "no that's not right."
yeah. well. whatever. you can't teach God anything.

[but then night rolls around and it all starts making sense; there is no right was or wrong way you just have to live and so i do what i do and at least i exist. what could mean more than this, what could mean more, mean more]

Nothing is static. Everything is falling apart

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