Dear year, give me slow death. The minutes are fresh, and smell of the magnified dew of an exponential new day – the time to make new things beside a world that celebrates this break. I know that i am a first man, that i have crawled out of the water and am now glaring at the proud orange sky above. I also know that i am alone – that i turned back and bit my mother to death upon birth, and now walk this world alone, my sight piercing through the sentient patterns of skin-bags plodding past me in times square and central park. Friend, i may speak to you in intelligible words, but how selfish you are – because you demand that i believe you more than the beautiful little doll-like friends that i have dreamt up for myself. They are perfectly manicured, up to their eyebrows and smell so refreshingly of lucky strike, and celebrate poetry in stolen boats off staten island coast, while you are coarsely emotional and too legal. I should believe them more than i do you. And here, abandoned on these new shining sands, i am inflamed by a new exciting wonder of having a new world spread out before me – thinning under my eyes, a landscape glitching and loading, into the forms of pinched trees and blue magma rock. Here is a huge serrated pie crust, and i shall breathe, like an angry baker at the task of furious bread, into this new world new life.
I am in It, and hence cannot read it off as blind optimism – it paints my vision in psychedelic colours too beautiful to question or be surreal.