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The Man had me with my back to the wall once again. "You'll live..." he exhaled. "But yer not gonna want to." I had played this game before, but the notion of Loss never occurred to me. The Junk runs, the side bets & all the sleazy, low-down, late-night shit that would never catch up to my pretty Lie. My hourglass was running short, it seemed. But luckily for me, the Crooked could always be bartered with... & the Clean always seemed to be at the wrong place at the right time. The mirror was shaking & i had looked long & hard into the eyes & face of what used to be something human. Time has a nasty way of intruding on fancy plans & memories not yet had. Voices are more real in mirrors & the terror feels Right & True to such sounds. The tattoo'd print of Time faces us all & we all beg & plead & stomp our feet. In the alley a cat screeched & whined & i was somewhere else. On a boat or a beach or the back row of a porno theater. It's excruciating travel... but we'll go anywhere when the fare is being picked up by someone else. It's the boring & banal that set our juices flowing & keep us coming back for more. Keep the light on... i'm only sleeping. Again in this town, lost & on the break. It's a Jungle... & at the very least the sounds are familiar, even if the faces & wallpapers have changed. Plug into the mainline & we're all come calling. Broken bottles make for atmosphere, but glass cuts & blood burns... & there's nothing funny when people die. And when the heat is turned up & you can't seem to focus on the points, it seems to melt all around you. Walls fall & the windows are already open. Blue-jays flutter around the room, only cos the walls have abandoned you. This, my friend, is the smell of the End... "Hustlers of the world, there is one Mark you cannot beat: The Mark Inside..." -WSB |