Flashing shaking flailing legs skin choking face spit hair she seizes herself and loses everything.

We found her like that, she sleeps with this thrashing music and the flashing lights. How does she sleep like that? Her blood is showing dry through her limbs. What does she dream about when she sleeps like that? Pieces of trash and glass flying everywhere around her head, getting lodged in the walls. Making such a mess of the place. She dreams? She dreams. She dreams about eyes and mouths, eyes closed but still showing colors, mouths closed. Dangling tits and cocks disappeared into what they’re always trying to conquer. Not even remembering what it looked like because it spent all its time disappeared there. Just wide open eyes in drunken surprise looking like a little dog. Chest hair and some smells sort of familiar. Staged words, porno theatre. That’s all lost and gone sucked into the vortex of the past that we try to rearrange conveniently. Technology only has one window on the past, not the way we have, events in disarray like her strewn clothes all around her when she shakes and dreams like that. Every motion was served up to her, brought her a little closer to death. A little closer to God in the end.

Look the music’s finally a little calmer now. The moment it finished she got dropped back down onto the earth, shitted out of a black bloody ass hole in the sky. In a heaving heap that felt like needles. That reminded her of bones and pieces of teeth and trash and fingers. She would’ve eaten her own fingers off if we’d left her there that way, some time after she’d woken from the thrashing, the seizure. She would’ve realized she was nailed in to that little room forever in the dark only her flashing lights and scratching music. Just a few piano strokes for relief.

She managed to climb up out of the rift that opened in the earth when the earthquake hit, the one that led into the abyss that dropped past the center of the earth and skipped through to some other world. But the abyss is sort of cracking now and running after her a little bit as it spreads over the dry earth, running after the people around her, hungry to swallow them up even though it is nature, and it is unaware, it has no wants, no preferences. We give it these qualities based on what we want, what we prefer.

I prefer that the loud music keeps keeping me alive, that I continue to sleep in seizures and that the abyss leaves me the fuck alone. I stared into it too long, became a monster now a little piece of the abyss goes everywhere with me, I bring it with me to every encounter.

She wasn’t always that way. Her heart was pure once, now it’s got a disease.

~

That was from 2009 also. The only differences are: I can't write like that right now, my world isn't wild enough, and my heart no longer has a disease. I wonder if these two are related. How sick do we need to be to create disastrous, beautiful things?