I had just finished dinner, and was sitting in house clothes, taking a break from paperwork, playing some computer games.
To reiterate – I have repeatedly told Kevin Street Garda Station that should I be required for anything, be it serving papers or charges, I would attend the station. I have multiple phone recordings to this effect.
Tombs slick the city streets clean, and how
Mothers drunk on vomit,
And nature’s gay for mankind’s bow,
Decay: the one true prophet.
Tombs slick the city streets clean, and how.
We razorblade the mirror, bare of blood
Visage is none but bleach,
Sure, bodies do engulf the mud,
Who’s god shall we beseech?
We razorblade the mirror, bare of blood.
It was late. Nearly sunrise, going by time. This was a jumble of urban fabric meeting in a cacophonous disharmony of structures: road, warehouse, railroad, bridge, road — not junction, rather a tangle of near-misses, excepting the two surface roads. Under the cold concrete arches of the viaduct, though, dawn didn’t seem so near. The amber haze of sodium lamps glared down, inhuman, unfeeling, unchanging. The light seemed to rip away the passage of time,
I was slow to learn the rhythm, to connect to my body in any meaningful way, like knowing which angle makes my ass look its juiciest. The fact is that for a while, my body meant nothing to me. The first few months, I was alone in my room. No noise. No good lighting. I just took my clothes off, took a couple pics, pressed send. I felt nothing. Not panic,