Part II


and at the end of the tunnel there is a . . . what? you think there’s light down there? that’s what we call a mirage. desirous images projected in the hazy heat of the mind’s throbbing. death seems to lurk everywhere, and yet there are no walls, no sudden boundaries marking the passing from one realm to another. no. she is come to face the bleakness of her reality, stand in the moon cold, reflective, strong. she strokes the smooth cool of the butt of the 9mm with clipped fingernails. acceptance? ha. what these people call acceptance is running away every day, bowing down, serving, stooling, selling themselves for survival. she is the true acceptor, wed to the one true and final love of her life: her death. and his. and his. but alone, separate, separated by whole lives cut off at the stem, flowing out of the genii bottle into everything, dissipation, lost of all the tightened, strained, embittered years clutched around their hearts like clamps, tightening with every moment that reminds, with every new day that memory breathes behind like the wizard of oz. she is come to unveil. she is come to reveal her emotions, let them pour out untrammeled, naked, red and flowing. no torture of the mind. no more years of frightened waiting.
the beauty, the bittersweet pain of birth and of death and of resurrection. transmuted into the earth. transformed into the sky. one with the universe that feels nothing, with the space that moves into itself.
a phoenix flies on a neon coloured poster proclaiming “JIM’s BURGERS: Had a bad day? We’ll serve you right.” a trashcan stands shining against the wall, its flap held open by an excessive load. the air here moving through the lobby is warmer. it is a warm night. she steps out into it through the open doors sideways, losing the sense of travel behind her, sidling back into herself, walking firmly, briskly into the city night air, the electric humming rush of cars, the urine light holes of offices beaming out of buildings hanging over in the sky. she feels a sudden rush of love-hatred for this city, this street, this district. she is its product, child of its alcohol dugged nights, its palm breezy days. how she will show them. how she will make them see.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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