I wander down some sparse, green crook too scenic for its commercial surroundings, Mahler’s Adagietto in a cheap earpiece, thinking this music must be what death is like for everyone. I cannot stay a wet sob. 

I do hope it is like this

Coursing the outskirts of morbid industry on a weed run for a friend of hers, the girl is out much later than she ever intended. Inevitably, she will be accosted by an intoxicated stranger with no person anywhere…

Roommate & friends successfully lured me out of my room during a study hole by asking if they could play my copy of Inland Empire — occasionally awayed under pretense of duty but only hovered beyond the door, thralled in the screams and the spray of disintegration. Of course, I always came back out within minutes.

Dern —— Nikki           Viewer
        \       /   <————     |
       …

Remembrance of the dead as psycho/physiological mutation.

A few months from now will mark three years since a friend of mine took her own life. She gave me two journals to write in on my eighteenth birthday: one flat, black, and lineless; the other a thin, olive green bundle of paper with the outlines of bunny rabbits playing on the cover. (“I heard you wanted to be a writer through the grapevine, and I saw these while out at Goodwill…