The 'What Else' That One Can Write

You have arrived to me at a time when I am contemplating and trying to unravel a long, long history of abuse. To the psyche, and the self. There are rooms, my friend, padded to the brim and filled with all sorts of peepulls. Allsorts. Exploding at the seams. And blood, and violence. Splat. It sounds like 'splat'.

I speak to you through these shards of teeth and from that tangy, rattling taste of blood you and I know well. So dynamic is life that we could be speaking of a bonafide bistec escabeche and a banana float, and we could even relocate psychically to a space where there are other people giving boisterous and enriching chatter, and hot girls strolling by once in a while for you and I to comment. Yet we choose to remain in this festering pontoon of crap. So please excuse the fucking vitriol, ok?

I'm catching the frays, these broken seams who land around me in so many colors. During this process, there are thoughts attacking one's personal integrity, there are whirling facades of 'self', and one's fingers just snap off upon cement. One two three ... through ten. Then you thank your blessed mother or father's genes for giving you extra.

When they land, I run to each one and greet them with glee. These are all aliens, and each one has this immense, colorful story for me. Imagine, the seclusion of inhabiting a capsule for nine million years, one's only 'hope' (as one bursts through space and various ozones) being the possibility to reach a sentient destination. Not even zen monks would purport that journey. So, I always go to greet them, like an excited little puppy, whenever they do land around me.

We cannot go into the tales of every single one right now, but if you hang out with me, I promise to try to inveigle some for their nectar. They are all so sweet, you know.