When I turn the page of the magazine, to the pin up of a generation, to the luminous photograph of Marilyn, to the lens focused on Diana, a thousand lives flash before me, a thousand distinguishable epochs, echoes through my time capsule, the cityscape, the unkind years, the empty streets I possess, a dull voice with nowhere to hide, the candle\'s faltering flame, landing like daisy petals, landing like salt in a glass. The fatal look is perceptible, as perceptible as stars in the black sky, the glory of famous ones we see in clippings and posters on the walls, Greek sculptures made out of marble, all the stories we learned in history class. I will not be incogitant. I\'m making room for tomorrow, coming back for air. I feel the rain on my skin, the rain falling into the smallest of openings. I can taste the orange in my mouth. I can taste the pink lemonade, wearing my anxiety on my sleeve. I shy away from the stage, the audience of faces, blots of waxy ink, playing the long game. I\'ve made eyes out of ice cream swirls, water ripples. I\'ve made eyes to see in the dark of the night, to see through the drafts of wind, to gaze into the disease of the mind. I\'ve tried too many times, in the hands of my addictions, to break free from the silence I sleep in, wondering how long does it take before the pathogens deteriorate, break down and become nothing? All around me I see the hyperinflation, the rising prices, like the white of the pimple, the pink blush, the dead leaves at my feet, the fruit trees and the pomegranates. I don\'t have any significant importance. I\'m living for fun, for anal sex. If you don\'t like what I say or what I do, bite me. Take off the tag and put on new clothes, change the rhythm of the body. Drink the crystals, swim in the molasses, the rivers of debauchery. I eat the sugar from the watermelon and lick my lips dry.