no more you

Is there a pattern to be made from all the tattered ends of memory, experience and desire to fictionalize our lives? Maybe it's an instrument playing the vibrations between here and there, now and then. Then and now. An instrument intent on desire. A certain disgusting and joyous desire to document our lives as the lives play out. Hard and sucked and sweet and lovely- soft and fucked and super cool. A lovely gesture of patterns all screwy and hot. All eased and calm. All like some melted bullet across my cartilage. I love it. It's a twist of hair in my finger and a grab my hair pull me in. Whenever. Day or night. It's a cuttlefish looking for a shard.