Living here is like swimming in concrete, and finding a
Lately the dreams have been getting closer, more real, more
frightening. Always the same hot dust, heavy with the smell of asphalt.
Always the taste of blood. Still blinded by bright sunlight through green
glass. A new detail arrives with each telling though, last
night it was the vibrations of the road against my face, felt through hot
peeling chrome edges of the dashboard. I still can't make myself move, but
the conversation continues. They want to know why I cut. They want to know
why I run. They want to attach sensors and monitors and spies and logos.
They want to own the experience. I'm starting to think about wearing a pie
tin for a hat.