There is something to be said for peace. Harmony; always such an evasive little bastard. Too big for one person. It sticks in the throat or backs up your bowels. In some manner you are constipated by the efficiency of worldly connectivity. Things are cheap or things are old and stale. The airport felt like they usually do. The feeling of getting away, of going away, seeps into the skin and the blood and the mind goes wild. Before you know it, you’ve downed a full and non-repressed Xanax brick and a three quarter tab of buprenorphine before reaching security. The paranoia of sniffer dogs at your bags and pockets. The ques. The time. Always the time. The gate number. The flight number. The baggage, to check or not check? Oh, the bag’s too big? check it in at $70 like a fool. Legs sway you through security swipings and beepings. Adult sized x-rays like idiotic toys and stupid serious morons in funny uniforms who are this country’s last line of defence against TERRORISM and DRUGS. Yo
I fall. I fall down Parisian steps flowing with bleach in a straight jacket of my own design. I need a thousand dollars worth of dirt to heal my sprained ankle and rule the slaves in my back pocket. I fall. I fall onto the head of a girl holding aloft a zippo lighter at dawn. She cracks a tooth on a zebra crossing and waves goodbye to party nights. Stop, she laughs, then jumps rope and fire. I fall. I fall with a dream of techno clubs lost without a name. This time I shrug and pinch my shoulder like Spock. I need an anaesthetic, fetch me a rollercoaster and send in the dancing girls—let’s roll. I fall. I fall into a bowl of tepid soup and swim to shore with orthodontic braces wrapped around my head. It’s a rainy day and bystanders are brought back to life from the ghetto. The next world is for loners only, riding skateboards, gobbling jambalaya. I fall. I fall from a great height into the cusp of a wave and a jaded snow storm. What’s worse is my shoes are untied and I have to reconstru