The Loneliness of Cyborgs

There are frustrations inherent in the creation of a perfect thing. Once made imperfect, it can never be restored. It requires cautious steps and surefootery. And the ability to squint a little and call an imperfect thing perfect in the interest of saving time.

Drawn to the colors. Drawn to the blacks. Drawn to the textures of things that imply otherworldness. To the very idea of something unreal. And not in a unicorn-y sort of way.

Unable to create or recreate or reduce or relax. The seeing thing. The watching eye. It smells like breakfast in here.

You better run for your life if you can, little girl.

The Loneliness of the Late-Nite Donut Shop

How does one reach out to the absence of a thing. In the dark. In puddles whose wetness only barely masks the gritty pavement. The wet, glinting black of dewy streets in the late hours. The tiny things that the tires of cars kick up as they careen past. Everyone is in a rush to get somewhere. Or to appear to believe there is somewhere worth getting to.

The Loneliness of High-Powered Women

It's discernment that wants for admiration, isn't it? Seeing it. Understanding it. Taking it apart in your head. Getting the very essence of the thing. And not gloating upon the getting of it. Some girls cross their legs slowly and deliberately. To let you know they know you're watching. Some girls move as if submerged in water. Every gesture, drawn and precise, ethereal and balletic. Some girls make it look easy.

The Loneliness of Long-Distance Runners

Your body gives you warnings when you've gone too far.

The Loneliness of God

I take no ownership of these things. They cannot belong to me. They cannot come from me. I'm striving and straining. Getting up early like someone who works in a bakery. Writing it all down as a means of excision. Spirit and froth flowing from my fingertips -- from the tip of my pen -- like inky blood that bears out the poisons with it onto the page.

Then I devour the pages, and it all gets back in.

The Loneliness of Madmen

The ones who hate you teach you to want things.

In the cold quiet of pretend outer space, listen for the blood coursing through the many little vessels in and around your ears. It grows louder once you notice it. The ceaseless throbbing. The signature of life and need and ratty imperfection. Something inside you yearns to burst forth. The weight of an empty universe presses down on the outside of you. Keeping it all in. Blood and guts and hopes and dreams. You have become a sack that prevents the spillage of these things.

Why is the shape of it so bloody important?