I am a sinner; to believe in (God) is to believe in my condemnation. 

I am lost in a world without a light to look to. If I could pray, I know they would have to go unanswered. I am a sinner, and I am unrepentant man. My sins are necessary; sins of necessity. Sins of mathematics and thermodynamics. Sins of fate. If you can believe in such a thing.

I don’t believe in fate, but I do suspect sometimes that if time were seen from an outer perspective, all time and space could be seen to be happening simultaneously, which means that fate is real, in that fate has happened, or is happening, and everything is happening, all the time, forever, always.

Mathematically, it makes sense to me. 

You can’t feel numb. You can only be numb. I can’t feel numb, so I just feel sort of cruel. I can’t win this game, so I sure as hell won’t be a graceful loser. I’ll take as much of the board down with me as I go. 

You could stab at me all day, and never reach my heart. You could drag this out, keep me guessing, keep me wondering, or you could just bring down the blade and fulfil my curiosity once and for-fucking-all.

“I’d do anything for you,” I say, looking up from the sink, my hands dripping with cold electrical static and blood that’s thicker than pancake syrup. the static is a crackle of black and white pixels burning into my hands like bleach. The blood is gummy and forming into little puddles, and then the surfaces of the puddles start to harden into scabs; weird crystalline cell-structures approximating the human condition: bleed, replace, repeat.

“Duly noted,” she tells me with the sort of impersonal perfectionism I’ve come to expect from my long term lovers. 

She watches me smoke my cigarette like she’s putting a bug out, under her shoe.