he'd never felt nylon in his veins before. the cold air that met his face as he walked out of the club, restless, was to him just an extension of the effects of the liquid that his blood was guiding toward his heart and brain – the liquid that could, if the air wasn't too cold, be called relief. but something was thickening deep within; he could feel it. something cold, nylon, dark, gray – dangerous because it was new. a homeless man crouched near the door asked him how to integrate cotangent as his green eyes looked around for another welcome.
inside club spektor there had been stories engraved on the walls and the ceiling had been filled with tiny gold-white stars. the music had been too yellow too calming too smooth to help him starve his brain, so he'd poured the rest of his hope for relief into his mouth and walked outside, into the california night whose cadmium streetlights shone like anything but fairies.
and i can see him gliding along the walls of the halls of a house, but the halls are too wide and the house is too big, too gray, too much like it used to be. the paintings are of them and they taste like salt and ghost water, with nighttime visions and spider legs that glide.
his cotton, and the way it bends, seems unnaturally smooth and much too perfect, cloud-colored (invisible so i can see his bones) – here's a flashing symbol, hanging irresolute but mobile-like, steady, below the strobe.
[ here and here. ]