I would like to write a suicide note in three and a half languages and travel south on a Thursday towards some form of life outside of earth
Fuck words, nothing spoken comprehends the defiantly ephemeral. I take my incompleteness with the rest, an exile in any language.
My angels are jellyfish, electric, nearly invisible, armed with poisoned harpoons. My archangels are yellow tang. They feed on sunlight. They speak through color. Anything in their paths turns blind.
I'll remember your apocalypse if you'll remember mine It will be a holiday of the senses
