Grassy knoll. You are standing where we once had a class. Picking up a magic 8-ball: reply hazy, try again. The people who are in power don’t seem to do anything to produce it. Why? If this were an older story, my fingers would turn into organs, and we would paint the city with secretions and reverie. People are always obsessed with sex and war, but mostly those are excuses. A great American painter is named George W. Bush. A great American author is named teejayx6. There are no great Americans. The thing about words is that they’re viruses too, and so is pleasure. The land is open.

Quicksand. In the lobby I am wearing makeup. I am speaking in a language that time forgot. Landscapes frighten the air, wind appears corrosive. Whipping my hand across the plane, like it’s a frisbee. They don’t recognize me, which only makes them stare more. The thing that disgust and desire have in common is that they’re both pre-voluntary, and both have to be whispered. I am convinced that I am fake: if I’m not, it cannot be proved. Outside, I am bony. Angels eat blotchy faces. Noise perseveres. The city is open.