The internet’s a great place to keep a personal webdiary. I have a huge collection of tautologies and truisms and blandishments and banalities and unlocked toilet bowl cleaners and associative riff-clusters and kraut-rock anthologies and “pretentious marijuana nightmare reveries” (Proust), fake gold. And on the day you finally get the morning campfire lit without thinking about it, as naturally as you used to turn on the range’s flame for coffee, the mountainside—which since you arrived has been covered in smooth bird feathers, like wet leaves completely covering a stone—will finally give a dusty pop and a colossal wing will unfold and the mountain flaps away. Awesome. Big recent tendency to mutter “fuck you, I hate you” under my breath to all of Daddy’s (God’s) children. I don’t really hate every body, it’s just that I’ve got that old papas fritas disease. More papas (patates) more problems (patates). Are there even piss-wells outside New York City any more?
SHAMELESS SHAPESHIFTER: I’d like to rent a video.
[The television doesn’t respond. It’s turned off. It moved to New York a few years ago to make a go of things in the TK industry.]
[CHERYL cries into her Pleather flower chowder. Flounder-cod bricolaise. Papas & patates soup. Fuck you]