The car rolls down the strip and stops at the light. The passer by smiles and waves, spits a wad of gupe onto the sidewalk and winks, but I never see it. The grey sticky atmosphere crushes my personal space. The vehicle interior encroaches. Its black velvet upholstery imperceptibly lurking inward. Sixteen stops and we haven’t even started. We’ll never arrive or see the beauty of a strip mall billboard. I bug the driver to turn down the heat but he replies “broken, broken..” This is what you get when your fake your own death. An endless loop around the soulless regions of the universe. A perpetual crawl towards an elusive bottom. My shapeshifting prowess has faded, leaving me stuck in this useless assemblage of appendages. One can’t light one’s own cigarette in this state. I daydream about the good old days of flickering fluorescent lights and steel chairs with deflated, torn cushions. The cracked brick walls holding my interest for days. The inexplicable joy of the cold concrete floor against my cheek. I watched the entire lifetime of a cockroach go by. We shared this sacred space; this world of unfolding magic. I felt truly fulfilled. Satiated by discovering the internal logic of this brainless creature. There was no difference between us, really. Everything can be boiled down to it’s simplest form; Scurry left, scurry right, defecate, repeat.  But those were the good old days and now I’m lucky to feel the clothes against my flesh or the breath flowing through my nostrils. I sit and contemplate infinity and wonder how I’ll ever make it until I nod in and out of consciousness. In again, out again, daydream, forever.

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