In his barks there was a long for what will never be, with utmost certainty.
Clarence would set dates for paedophiles with each other and I’m still writing about you. It was a laugh, I bet, a great laugh. My foreign status would only cease to amaze you, but no more than my depleted humor (it really depends on the receipient—and my good mood). My socks are cheap and probably ill (and ill-fated as well), and you were all in black, you white cream, not so white, of course not, fuck white, what would you call your skin color, please tell me more, I need to remember.
Your dramas, your friends and hatreds all dissipated very soon, too soon for me and right on time according to the clock of things (real, American). Mine, my clock, is broken. My theories are about creating the illusion of narrative, of alt time. A time in which everything nice happened and will happen and if it never happened it happened still, you should know. And so I am not slipping but it is you and your glorious curly hair, angel—Are you an angel?—your dusty CDs and I am dust in between them, and dust gets wiped from memory sooner, and its presence reflects epilogue, it is a wormhole to better times—yours, not mine.
