smoke rings rise and catch the light of the film. i lean back in my chair and watch the rings rise. listening to someone dead speak words written by someone dead. i have a sneaking feeling that this beautiful ghost town is my body. its the sort of thing that i brush off, too many circles and you begin to confuse pleasure and pain. boredom and fascination. all those thin lines we squint our eyes not to see.
somewhere, someone is waiting for something. and i wont leave my apartment. this gives me a false sense of control. i realize this, but it doesnt stop me from doing it. i know whats outside. candy that turns to shit. ive eaten it. ive smelled it. ive been it. and i wait in my apartment for the world that was promised to me when i was five.
i still sit politely, back straight, neatly dressed. waiting to be addressed. and i sit politely. listening to cars crash outside my windows and i wait. i smell despair and wait. i swell with disease and i wait. politely. because thats what you do. thats what civilization is. without polite we would have rwanda and yugoslavia and dresden and auschwitz. and we wouldnt want that would we? thats not what a do bee wants is it?