It rained for days and I did not enjoy it. My heart sank and I grew isolated from my few remaining friends again. Lovesick in the absence of love. I received a letter from a friend I had lost; I could not stand to open it. It remains untouched. I think about it all night long. I think about having sex with men and goats. I feel a slight breeze on the back of my neck like a dragon’s breath and I can feel the metal in my bones begin to melt. It is important to keep the lights on all night long and keep the skin wrapped up in soft fabrics. A drapery falls from its place and is surrounded by territorial wasps. They attack it like it is a hive of bees, beheading every precious bee in a precise and invulnerable motion, cutting down thousands in total colonial genocide, looting their chests of nectar and abducting their children to feed their own kids. The tower of honey collapses and the drapery turns back into water, puddling up and evaporating away. A puff of smoke leaves its lips as they kiss and collapse and nothing is there again, as nothing always was.
Visions march across my field of vision like a pageant of grotesqueries, strange and vaguely offensive, uncomfortably erotic and needlessly alien. “Where are the people,” I ask myself, “Where are the human beings?”