Can you let me finish a sentence? Can you let me drink this cold coffee with a straw? Shall I pour pie in the eyes of a man I’ve never met and expect a tip for my troubles?
When did the sun go down? When did it come up again? What flowers have bloomed in the night, shedding their perfume like snakeskin into the purity of the night air? Where is the blanketing dark that became so familiar I could no longer smell it? I had to leave and come back. Leave and come back, leave and come back, over and over until a path is worn from the pacing, a smooth track of dirt along a route that goes here and there, a path that leads the one who treads it on a journey through time and space for no good reason.
Here in the synthetic dawn of a chemical process that is no less strange for its proximity, I awake as though from a dream, and find myself in a small room with a man who tells me, “You’re not painting your face green and taking the bus to New York.” He’s right, of course, but what does it mean that he’s right? What is the likelihood of livelihood?
I am fate’s bitch. And do you know what fate is? Fate is a cute little girl with a hidden penchant for creative and depraved spectacle. I perform the private, telling rituals for the pleasure of other things, and the little girl may or may not give me a treat at the end.
Shit.
Ethan Abides 