The swell was so great, filling my ears and devouring my thoughts. So thick. So much. So good. There is no better pleasure in this world than music and this was the best music I had ever heard. It was epic like earthquakes or tornados or bombs falling from the sky. It was that feeling you get when something is deeply important on a level beyond your tiny thoughts. It was the soundtrack that should have been playing when the universe fell out of the cold, dark, night sky. Everything afterwards seemed trite. Was trite. She left. And it was quiet.
Figuratively speaking she was a slut. She talked to anyone who showed an interest in her. She had no morals or bias and accepted everyone. For this she was ironically rejected by her peers because she had no loyalties; belonged to no clubs. It was that team mentality she hated; having to choose between Coke or Pepsi and pay for the t-shirt. She wandered from scene to scene like some sort of human social pinball ball conducting un-spoken experiments on anyone who would have her; unconsciously writing a diverse book in her head that would never be published or even read.
The thoughts come to me like a box of puzzle pieces emptied onto the floor. Fortunately for me I do not need to sort them out. That is for the people who pay me to figure out. Technically I will work for anyone because I am freelance, but corporations and governments are the only clients that can afford my fees. They hire me to read the thoughts of their adversaries. I have millions of dirty secrets in my head and who knows how many people want me dead. I am not even sure if I have thoughts of my own anymore.
The pictures on the wall were blurred with time and cigarette smoke. Faded to the point of abstraction for those that glance at them now. Whereas these pictures actually meant something to someone at sometime. But those people have long passed through this space, this town, and possibly this life. We are left with their smoky intoxicated smiles beaming back at us as if these images were fragments of a mirror from our own past yet to come. I scan the faces in the bar and wonder how they will differ from those in the collage of alcohol, sweat and smiles.
Soon I will have what I want. Don’t misunderstand. What I want has nothing to do with money, fame, and woman. Those are side affects; calluses on my achievements. The things I will do will change the world. My world. Because that is what it will become. My world. And I will keep it in a dilapidated shed just beyond the broken refrigerator and rotting tires on my 5 acre parcel of land in Montana. I will keep it safe, monitor my progress, and take thorough notes. If you blow me I will let you have visiting rights. Please don’t beg.
Motionless at 80 mph on this path of distractions the dotted line is relentless in its consistency, stretching out, seemingly forever, until the water has its way. In the mean time the clouds inhale fumes and eavesdrop on the rising hushed tones of rubber on pavement, and the occasional splash of metal against metal. The trees wait in the margins for the destiny of their ancestors who once stood here, whispering signs of expansion as the garbage in the gutters gets closer and closer, until one day they put up a cement wall and paint trees on it. What the fuck?
Starchild was born in the sixties, but she went supernova in the nineties. Somehow her hair is silver, her nails chrome, and her eyes look like one of those Christmas ornaments you turn upside down to make it snow. She wore sunglasses a lot because guys were always complimenting them. “I’ve never seen anyone with eyes quite like yours”, they would say. And every time she would reply, “Thats because I am the only one on this planet with eyes like these!”. In ’98 she got picked up by a cop hitch-hiking. He didn’t like her glasses. I miss her hair.