a nice fellow who shares a dream with me then immediately regrets it. speeds off into the night on his motorcycle. i am left alone in his apartment and begin systematically reading all of his books until he comes back. when he does, taking his helmet off by the door, he stares at me and is angry. now you know everything about me, he accuses, and the lights all go out at once. when i come to, i am in a basement with a shadow that is more like a moth, flapping madly at my face before vanishing again.
i am writing something in the goopy, melting cement of the walls, and it says, TRUTH, which i claw away in a fit of vengeful fury. this has the added benefit of causing the walls to completely melt and collapse and the entire thing falls down around me.
the sky is a polished gun. the sun is the smoking hole. the bullet, speeding through the space.
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