smoke is pure. clean and true. it doesnt tell me anything i dont already know, it doesnt lie. like the moon. i can see the moon lying on the horizon like a bleached whale. maybe thats why the light in this ghost town stays static. its always twilight. the puzzle pieces fall into place and move. i am moving. forward? backward? inward? outward? i dont know and i dont give a fuck. im moving. careening along the edges of my reality. and the movement forces oxygen into my lungs. its the only way i can breath anymore. head out the window, hands off the wheel, open mouthed, catching butterflies between my teeth. technicolour bursts explode in my widescreen hitchcock mind. can one feel too beautiful? i doubt it. i was beautiful in berlin. i remember. no amount of metal or monument shall erase me. no amount of barbed wire and boxcars shall erase me. i will shed this costume again.
smoke and mirrors rising from the ghettos and the camps and the catholic church. offer a cigarette to the devil and he will say thank you. offer him a light and he will smile. satan has no need of a lighter.