How the hell did I get so domestic? My house is full of boxes. Mine and my roomates, AV Gear and Alistair things. Mix them all up and we would have a wierd studio covered in glitter. We could destroy the world from my messy box. Death-defying horror and strangeness. I like it. I want to unpack. Start with my room, then find homes for the lava-lamp, the lunchboxes full of glow-in-the-dark dinosour skeletons and concert tickets, the tibetan monk-made jewelry my ghodmother bought new in San Fransisco the year everyone looks back to, wishing they lived in Haight Ashbury. Nevermind the sewing patterns, the embroidered films, the dreams flying in a hundred odd objects.
Walk this damn line. Defy and dissolve whatever the hell it is we think we’re doing. I’ve got music cranked, I’ve got food started in my one last pot. Someone I barely know is moving in. Water boiling and I’m barefoot dancing with a shiny cleaver in hand. The ferret is scurrying everywhere, exploring the new topography of my apartment. You would love to see this. This is simple reality beating, burning skin deep. I’ve ascertained recently that this isn’t normal.
This is class.
My world has expanded to include other peoples inspiration. My friends have been infected back.
Take this paradise and shred it.
