There once was a vast civilization outside the window of the Marriott Residence Inn in Kingston, NY. A marketplace seemingly forever expanding throughout suburbia, teeming with shops, fast food, entertainment — vibrant abstraction of any potential instance of human pleasure or sadness. That marketplace thrived for a long time until an event so disastrous occurred that no amount of ingenuity could prevent the resulting destruction. All of the houses began to collapse one by one,
“Who said starvation isn’t fun?” Mark said, with a big yellow-toothed smile on his face as he laughed like a loon.
We had gone on a hunger strike for no reason other than we had nothing better to do.
“I agree! Should we head to the dumpster good-sir?”
Mark nodded and put on his sneakers. He always slipped them on and believed there was nothing worse in the world than having to actually tie them.
Even then, even now I am constantly thinking of them— innumerable souls, it’s said, and reprehensibly neutral angels, but I don’t want to hear about angels anymore— gnashing their teeth, placeless and howling at everything in particular, clawing at the gates of hell, having been locked out for refusing the world, their lives, and themselves of each other. They are the ones, there, with words rotting inside them. Now I want you to think of things that hulk with themselvesness,
Gabriel called. He’s ready to work on the documentary. We’re so inspired now that we’re already sending each other five-minute-long Voice Notes on WhatsApp discussing ideas. We have come to the understanding that despite the gruesome details of the brutal attack being the spur for this project, what fascinates us more is the life stories of the attacker and victim, and how their eventual encounter on that sunny day of May 2012,