Do you know what it's like when you want to cry but can't get those tears out?
Or better yet, you stare your eyes through mirrors that shatter from the intensity of the act. Glass shards make your eyes red. You hope in the least for blood to seep out if not tears, but your own fucking body disappoints.
Then the man comes to your dreams again. NO... my dreams. The man has scattered himself across my fiction. He's starved and almost dead, but his walk of a worker in '60s Russian films gets me. The formal trousers disguise his thin legs. He doesn't look skinny because of the excess dangling skin—attached deep in his marrow. He got the walk of the future as I call it. I'm not talking about time, and my head aches now to explain; I might explain it beneath some other roof.
I barely slept for a week. I need some rest, though I know sleep is like tears, they don't come. And tears are again like humans. I am already an outcast, should I revert myself from this race too?
Rick B. Buy me a pen