Dear ØØØØØØØØØ

So, it’s been a while since we’ve spoken.

I know you’ve been thinking about me. I could tell. 

I saw you the other day. You were in that cafe where all those attractive blind girls work. You had that bitter, rigid look you get on your face, when you’re thinking about me. I’ve come to recognize it. 

I remember the last time we did it, down by the beach. You’d just killed a man, and I’d just gotten very, very drunk. You seduced me with a set of collector’s cards I’d wanted since I was ten years old; they were sports cards, for a fake sport called Spunklebat. Yeah, by putting those cards in just the right order, you practically paved a path from me to your bed. 

I remember the way the sea was slapping on the shore, as you romantically told me to “put it to you”. The sea had gone purple, with pollutions, year ago, and that acidic water was bleaching and burning the beach sands into strange patterns of black-on-white, like a savage checkerboard gone surrealist in the night.

You were dripping in blood. His blood. You looked so proud of yourself, so dead-set and certain that you’d done something right. I wasn’t so sure, but goddamn if you didn’t taste like starlight and chilli-cheeseburgers when you pulled me in close to kiss. Your tongue was one of those tanks, that went rolling through Tiananmen Square; unstoppable, brutal, and politically motivated. 

But now… Now I just see you, sitting alone, more often than not. I know you still have volumes of strange letters for pornography to send my way. 

I just hope it makes it in time.

I’ll always sort of love you,

-Unsigned

We were trapped in a machine, a box of living words. 

She was born to fiction. She’s never known what it’s like to really be alive, to be something that pains and ages and changes with time. She was born as a book; her life was omnipresent, written down from beginning to end. She was just living out the motions, the moments, of the page you turned to.

She was beautiful and scarred and newborn and dying of old age, all at once. She was lustful, always so lustful. Eat more, see more, fucking more. She wanted to experience everything that was life, even if it wasn’t hers.

I came to her because I fell in love with her idea, with the concept of this girl, out there, in here, somewhere. I fell into her world, I tumbled headlong into her words. 

I got stuck in there. Stuck on her, stuck with her…. 

She was wearing nothing but her big black combat boots, when she took me. It was a little like being taken down by one of the animals from the zoo, or maybe some sort of super-evolved cat-girl from outer space.

Her body was long, too long, and sleek, too sleek. She looked like she stayed healthy by bathing in blood and electrical currency. There were these sparks in her eyes, like an oil fire was happening far, far away. 

She was sublimely futuristic; that’s how I saw her anyway. Like the perfect weapon genetically designed to come fuck with my day. Her voice was like hearing my own throat being slit. 

Do you get that? When she spoke, I felt my blood boiling, and spilling over. Those nosebleed of the sexually excited anime character. The spurting warmth of the knife-wound victim. 

She walked up to me, naked, in her big, black, combat boot. And she hit me with a smile, and she threw me the password, the key, the expression I needed to see on her face, to let me know it was safe to proceed. 

Yeah. She stomped right up to me, and into my goddamn heart.
All over the fucking thing
With those big, black boots of hers.