Skipping meals to code. Letting the hours keep slipping. The crick in my neck winding itself tighter. The majic becoming a crust atop its screen.
“The room smells like burnt leaves and poop!” she says, entering the apartment after a long day of work. “And your breath is even worse!”
“Look, it’s not like I’m trying to ruin my grace, pulling away at the healing vegetable as much as I do; it’s just that sometimes there’s a part of me which yearns; a part of me which pulls for a betterment and an ability for absolute ingestion. Consumption becomes an inhaling of power, an act of worship - seeking followers like the absent nutrients provided through poverty…”
“Don’t you think you should slow it down a little? I split it into days for a reason.”
“But the reasons are no good, to the man who says go and go and keep on going till you suck the pop right out of that balloon, and relieve that tension stretching in your skull.”
“Perhaps skulls aren’t meant for popping.”
“Perhaps its all that’s worth doing.”
“But what if you pop that skull, right there in front of me, and become something totally unrecognizable to me? How could I go on living with you living apart from me? I need my brother, I need my friend, my best friend. Going inside is just as bad as going out!”
“Darling, darling… I could pop your skull first if it would make you feel any better.”
“It would, oh you know so, but I prefer us both complete, and whole, and here, together. Lovers in Heaven; Adam and Eve, before the suicide…”
