Penny
They did not just have Dodi Al-Fayed say to Princess Diana "I'll be right back,".. did they?'..
I'm not supposed to speak, they tell me not to. They scold me and I know I don't like it but I can not keep these thoughts to myself. They do not feel like my thoughts, they smell like someone else and they taste ..clean.
She's dead. I'm telling you, she's dead by the end.
He shrugs at me, stares hard at something I can't see and I watch as he seizes. I am not concerned and somehow I believe this is natural. This is nature taking its course, this is well-deserved. This is justice. The whites of his eyes look silver to me. They shine.
What. It's KEVIN SMITH behind a convenience store counter playing a CLERK wearing a WE'LL NEVER FORGET t-shirt with a BUS with WINGS and a HALO. Wait.. is that THE WHO playing under the dialogue?
The channel changes, tuning into something that looks like a broadcast but could very well be video tape. Worlds are colliding in a jungle. A dense, wet jungle.
I could do something with the television if I wanted to. Turn it on. Turn it off. I know this because the nurse, with her gentle touch, keeps telling me to use my hands. She tells me my hands will get better, that it's all in my mind. She tells me not to use my mind so much.
She is concealing a syringe in her cold, waxy hands. Why do I know this?
The channel is changed again.
IS THAT THE PIXIES?
He is sweating and it looks silver to me and I think I know why. He used to do it to his nails. Silver. "Look," he says, his eyes closed and his lips dry "you were right."
GSW to the gut. I wince like the bullet came through the screen and caught me; I taught ..someone how to do that. I taught him the pattern to write, the proper annunciation, the correct offering. The frequency to use. The word.
I know that word, too.
I'm not supposed to speak, they tell me not to. They scold me and I know I don't like it but I can not keep these thoughts to myself. They do not feel like my thoughts, they smell like someone else and they taste ..clean.
She's dead. I'm telling you, she's dead by the end.
He shrugs at me, stares hard at something I can't see and I watch as he seizes. I am not concerned and somehow I believe this is natural. This is nature taking its course, this is well-deserved. This is justice. The whites of his eyes look silver to me. They shine.
What. It's KEVIN SMITH behind a convenience store counter playing a CLERK wearing a WE'LL NEVER FORGET t-shirt with a BUS with WINGS and a HALO. Wait.. is that THE WHO playing under the dialogue?
The channel changes, tuning into something that looks like a broadcast but could very well be video tape. Worlds are colliding in a jungle. A dense, wet jungle.
I could do something with the television if I wanted to. Turn it on. Turn it off. I know this because the nurse, with her gentle touch, keeps telling me to use my hands. She tells me my hands will get better, that it's all in my mind. She tells me not to use my mind so much.
She is concealing a syringe in her cold, waxy hands. Why do I know this?
The channel is changed again.
IS THAT THE PIXIES?
He is sweating and it looks silver to me and I think I know why. He used to do it to his nails. Silver. "Look," he says, his eyes closed and his lips dry "you were right."
GSW to the gut. I wince like the bullet came through the screen and caught me; I taught ..someone how to do that. I taught him the pattern to write, the proper annunciation, the correct offering. The frequency to use. The word.
I know that word, too.
posted by Pobble @ 4:12 PM
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